


entanglement

by raffinit



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Political Marriage, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-09-02 03:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: intimacy comes in many shades of grey





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zellk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zellk/gifts).

> it's ya girl back at it again with that political marriage shit but with even more slow burn and pining
> 
> why?
> 
> bc why not

I

\------

Intimacy hadn’t really been part of the bargain when they married. At best, Jaina expected a tenuous coexistence — one that consisted mainly of them trying not to kill each other. The very suggestion of a binding marriage had been a laughable solution to their problems, and yet somehow here they were. Married. The Alliance and Horde in a tremulous peace, cobbled together on a house of cards that was their union. 

Tides, but how she had _ loathed _Sylvanas then.

They existed within a vacuum of each other’s presence for a long while. A year passed, then another. Three years went, and they kept to opposite ends of the Keep; one tower for the other. As far away from the other as they could get, with neither willing to be the first to falter from the union. They were as polite as they needed to be; as cuttingly snide with their pleasantries whenever they were forced to be in each other’s presence. 

It was a miracle that the marriage endured — from one year to the next, from one flagging war to the other. Without the animosity of the factions turned to one another, their numbers were great. Their resources plenty.

They fought back Azshara’s forces. N’Zoth’s.

Thinking back, Jaina thought it was only fitting that the frost between herself and the Warchief had begun to thaw in the deadly heat of battle.

It had been one of the bloodiest battles in recent times. And that was saying something, for Jaina had lived through enough of them to never want to smell blood and earth and steel again. It was their first commonality: as veterans and victims of war and death.

The swarming naga came in a swallowing wave from the Great Sea. It was scales and blood and steel, a wild cacophony of singing swords and battle cries silenced within a slit throat or a blade run through the middle. They were memories that plagued Jaina in her quietest moments still, but what she remembered clearest was the proud and unwavering figure of the Warchief amidst it all. Deathwhisper in hand and a great whirl of arcane that carried the smell of petrichor and iron sparked beneath a smith’s hammer. Her Wail that shook the battlefield; the black tendrils that danced like wraiths as she pulled the very life force from the naga.

They had cut a path through the field together; she who rained fire and frost down onto their enemies while Sylvanas eviscerated the closing ranks. She remembered the press of Sylvanas’ armour and quiver against her back, the deadly efficiency and accuracy with which they moved.

It had been a dance Jaina had no recollection of ever practising, but it had come so naturally then that she could embrace it.

They had come so close to Azshara. Close enough for Jaina to smell the brine of her skin and the sickly-sweet of her glamour as she laughed and mocked them amidst blows. She remembered the ringing in her ears as Sylvanas Wailed, only to have it swallowed by Azshara’s shield.

“I was hoping it would come down to this,” Azshara had laughed. “Queen to Queen. Master to puppet.”

Sylvanas spat something in Thalassian, sharp and reverberating in the remnant of her power. 

Azshara’s face tightened, her fiery eyes blazed.

She remembered the swift and cruel vengeance that came when Azshara’s magic cut through — a momentary lapse in Sylvanas’ power stores. In hers. The battle drew from their mana as much as they drew naga blood, and for an instant, the shield around them fell.

She remembered the smell of ichor. The stilted sound that came from Sylvanas’ throat — a gasp, nearly a cry, but nothing close to it, because she was the Banshee Queen and Warchief, and she did not falter — as Azshara’ javelin plunged deep into her chest.

Sylvanas staggered back, blinking wide blood-red eyes as she looked down at her chest.

Their eyes met. Jaina felt her heart plummeted into her stomach. And then it rose in flames into her throat.

She did not remember the next part too well — only remembered the earth trembling around them as she pulled a great storm from the skies. The heat and scorch of her eyes glowing so bright it was nearly blinding as she reached out her hands to the heavens and wrought lightning and thunder.

“Hear me, witch,” Jaina boomed, and around her the air sparked and stung with static electricity. Her ivory hair came undone from its braid, flowing like white flames as she turned murderous eyes to Azshara. “Hear me and know that you die by my hands today.”

Azshara laughed, an imperious sound. “And know that your precious wife died by mine.”

There was a rasp; a breath made from a punctured lung. “_Not today_.”

Deathwhisper’s song left a buzzing in her ears that lingered for hours after the war. She only remembered seeing the great plume of black and purple; an arrow sent forth with what seemed like the last of Sylvanas’ strength. She did not think — didn’t need to. 

She threw out her hands and sent the storm with it.

The smoke cleared. Sylvanas was swaying on her feet, and Jaina the same. The javelin was snapped in pieces, protruding several inches from green-stained armour. Jaina heaved a breath and tasted blood in her throat; felt it dripping from her nose.

Azshara was no more.

“Well done, wife,” Sylvanas whispered, mumbled and thick through a mouthful of ichor. It was, in retrospect, the first time she’d ever heard the Warchief speak the term without a sneer. “Well done.”

She swayed again, then fell. Jaina reached out and caught her before her knees could touch the ground. They fell back together; the Warchief embraced in the arms of the Lord Admiral.

“Hold on,” Jaina choked, bile rising into her mouth. “Hold on, damn you.”

Sylvanas chuckled, wry and shuddering. “The war is over. It is done.”

“Not yet,” Jaina hissed, eyes stinging as she curled her aching hands into the stained purple of Sylvanas’ cloak. “Not yet. I’ll bring Eyir to heel myself if I must.”

“Brave wife,” Sylvanas mumbled, and her grip on Jaina’s arm slackened. “Brave sweet thing. You can’t save everyone.”

Jaina set her jaw and swallowed back the heat of tears — why on earth was she even crying? It was the damned war. It had to be. “No. But I can save you.” Raising a trembling hand, streaked in green and red, she drew from the last of her mana stores and Blinked them away.

They returned to the Keep just so — Sylvanas cradled in her arms, clutched tight, before Jaina’s eyes rolled back with exhaustion.

\-------

The war had ended.

N’Zoth’s forces reduced to nothing; the Old God beaten back and caged into a realm beneath the waters once more. Azshara dead and gone.

By no small miracle, Sylvanas lived. Without need for the use of her last val’kyr, but great power and a lengthy process of restoration. For days, they were confined within the space of one of the larger spare chambers. Jaina woke at some point, feeling like an ancient being pulled from eternal slumber. It was dark out, sometime between sunset or sunrise, she couldn’t be sure. Her body was aching and sore; her hands cramped and stiff from prolonged magic. They stung something awful, blistered and raw, and Jaina knew they would likely scar from the abuse. The sheets moved beside her, and she turned her head with effort.

In the great bed beside her, was the Banshee Queen.

Wrapped in layers of gauze around her midriff and sealed wounds that healed into more scars over her body.

Battered and bruised, but alive.

Jaina blinked, then groaned as she struggled to push herself upright. Every muscle in her body ached and creaked; her head felt stuffed with cotton and heavier than stone. She slouched on her hands, reaching up to palm wearily at her face as she listened to the faint breathing from the woman beside her.

Slow, deep. The breathing of someone soundly asleep.

“I know you’re awake,” she mumbled, peering sidelong at Sylvanas through her fingers. “You don’t need to breathe like we do.”

Sylvanas kept breathing for a moment longer, and then she sighed. “Spoilsport,” she murmured, cracking an eye open. “Let me keep the illusion of being alive for a bit longer.”

Jaina tilted her head slowly from side-to-side, wincing slightly as sore muscles stretched. “You’re still here, aren’t you?” She rubbed at the back of her neck, up into her hair where she felt the goose egg that had likely happened when she collapsed on the flagstones. She winced again and lowered her hand. “Don’t think that counts as an illusion.”

The Banshee Queen was silent for a ponderous moment. “No,” she said at length. “I suppose not.” With great effort, she pushed herself upright the same, hissing out a low breath as she reached a hand to brace along her midriff. Pursing her lips, she said, “That’ll leave quite a mark.” She pulled her hand away then and peered at Jaina for a long moment.

Red eyes roved from her face and hair down over her body with an intensity that bewildered Jaina. With a perplexed frown, she leaned away slightly. “What are you looking at?”

“_You._ Just making sure you’re still in one piece.”

Jaina pursed her lips and looked away. “I am, now stop that. It’s unsettling.”

Sylvanas’ lips twitched into a wry curl, but obeyed. They sat together for a moment, a heavy air of exhaustion between them as they breathed and took stock of the damage. “How long have I been resting?” she asked.

Jaina shrugged a shoulder, her nightdress slipping from place with the move. She failed to notice the way Sylvanas’ eyes followed. “Your guess is as good as mine. A day or two, I suppose?” She lifted her hand and made a vague gesture with it. A small orb appeared and she peered into it keenly, brows lifting in surprise. “Oh. Three days.”

“That’s enough time for another war to start.”

“Let’s hope not.” She waved the orb away and leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. Her eyes slid shut for a moment, savouring the plushness of them beneath her head, breathing slowly and deeply as her body began to sink back slowly into rest.

A faint prickle of something lingered in the periphery of her mind. She cracked open an eye and glanced at Sylvanas sidelong.

The Banshee Queen was still watching her.

“What?”

“..._thank you_.”

Jaina blinked and opened her eyes wide.

“...for getting us out of there alive.”

She turned slowly onto her side, ignoring the throbbing protest of her body and tucked an arm under her head. She looked at Sylvanas for a long while; took in the way the Warchief held herself almost delicately. Broad shoulders slouched inwards, as if the very weight of the world still sat perched there. Elegant, sloping cheeks drawn from weariness and eyes that seemed to bore into her face.

The low slant of long ears that twitched at the ends as Sylvanas continued to stare at her with an unreadable expression.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered. “Thanks for holding on.”

Sylvanas inclined her head, lowering herself carefully onto her side the same. A mirror image of the battle-weary and the battle-worn. “Jaina…?”

Jaina allowed her drooping eyes to shut, but lifted her brows in reply. “Mmn?”

A careful, hesitant hand reached out and touched hers. It was soft, and surprisingly warm. It made her skin tingle. “...nothing. Rest.”

The touch slid away, but Jaina felt it for the rest of the night.

\--------

The end of the Last War left Jaina at a loss of what to do next. There was still much to rebuild and heal — she was certain that her days would never dull for a moment. As time went on — as she and Sylvanas healed and continued their roles of leading their people — Jaina became aware of the looming, unspoken question that hung above them at every council meeting.

It took three years of marriage and a damned war for them to look at each other without sneering.

The war was over. There was no need for the other bit now, was there?

The thought of dissolving their marriage should have filled Jaina with something more than the curdling dread that settled in her stomach. She should have been relieved at the thought. Instead, she found herself wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it. To end the unifying treaty and leave the Alliance and Horde as separate factions once more were — to put it politely — stupid fucking ideas. There would be no further opportunity for trust and reparations beyond that, surely. Only more hate.

It was a fleeting thought, laid to rest one council meeting when Sylvanas smiled condescendingly at Greymane when he suggested it.

“We’ve barely ended one war, but your Alliance is so eager to start another. Already cutting ties, are we, Greymane? Can’t wait to finish what the Naga Queen started?”

The Gilnean curled his lip back into a deep scowl. “Why have Jaina suffer for any longer than she must? Let her be in peace, let all of us be in peace, and we won’t have a quarrel left with you.”

“I might remind you,” Jaina said tightly, from beside Sylvanas, “that the New Coalition has done nothing but thrive. We are, as you say, _ in peace_. It would be remiss of me not to defend that and my wife by any means necessary.”

The smile she gave Genn from across the table was anything but pleasant.

“We will do no such thing,” Anduin placated them. “We see how well the Coalition has endured. We know that it continues to do so because of your marriage. We’re only suggesting a solution if you want it.”

“I don’t,” Jaina said firmly, but as she cast her eyes towards Sylvanas, there was uncertainty there. “_I_ don’t,” she repeated, with feeling.

Sylvanas gave her a sliding glance, flickering and quick. “No more talk of this,” she commanded. “I won’t have the meddlesome noses of the Alliance prodding into our private business.”

They left the meeting together that day; Sylvanas’ steadying hand on the small of her back.

As they walked, straight-backed and regal, Sylvanas murmured, “Is it as he says, Lord Admiral? Are you _ suffering_?” Her eyes continued staring indifferently ahead of them; as if she hadn’t spoken at all, but Jaina heard it clear enough.

“From hunger, yes,” she breathed, with her chin thrust out just as imperiously. “We’ve been asleep for days and we stopped a war. I’m famished.”

Sylvanas made a low noise. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into something entirely pleased. It wasn’t an answer, but it was enough. “Shall I have Alina deliver food to your chambers, then? Or would you rather we dine together?”

Jaina faltered in her step for an instant. “Together?” Short of celebrations like Winter Veil and Hallow’s End, or tedious balls, they never ate at the same table. She wasn’t even sure if Sylvanas still ate.

“If you like.”

“Yes,” she said, without thought. “Yes, I think I would like that.”

“Good,” Sylvanas said simply. “I’m glad we are of one mind.”

They sat in the highest chamber of the North Tower and dined on a feast of roasted pheasant and mutton stew, paired with rich dark bread and cheese. They ate with their hands and washed it down with wine and ale. They shared stories of one lifetime or the other, and Jaina learned that yes; the Warchief still ate, though she tasted precious little, and that she had a wicked sense of humour.

She laughed so hard her stomach cramped, and as she wiped the tears from her eyes and giggled breathlessly, she saw the bright gleam of Sylvanas’ unnatural eyes. The curling grin that accentuated a faint dimple.

Sylvanas replenished her wine and their fingers brushed as she took it. Lifting it slightly, Jaina said wryly, “To the end of the war. And to a lifetime of happiness and health in our marriage.”

The Banshee Queen smirked, and lifting her own glass with a flourish, purred, “To us, my dear.”

She drank, and over the rim of her glass, she blamed the heat in her cheeks as the flush of a full belly and good spirits.

\------

The year passed slowly.

Without war at the forefront of their minds, there was suddenly too much time spent doing...nothing at all. That wasn’t to say that either of them wasn’t inundated thereafter with endless audiences and petitions and meetings about the slow recovery of their kingdom. It would be a hard few years to come, but they would endure. They always did.

In the passing months, a quiet shift began to take hold. Unspoken, somehow, but no less resonant. It was almost as if the walls of the Keep weren’t the only ones the war had torn down. Three years and eight months into their marriage...the ice thawed.

They spoke to each other without need; quiet morning greetings or nighttime bids of pleasant dreams. Soft inquiries of each other’s well-being throughout the day as their paths crossed. Seeking each other out as they passed in bustling corridors.

Only for an instant — nothing but a flash of eyes that met and held until they each disappeared around the corner.

Jaina couldn’t understand it. Nothing had changed between them; not by much at all. She had saved Sylvanas that day because — well, she had to, didn’t she? They were married. Sylvanas was her wife.

Once, she caught Genn muttering about it. About the shame it’d been that Jaina had been there to save the Warchief’s sorry behind, “_would’ve been killing two birds with one stone_.”

The room went still and frigid when Jaina walked in. She looked across the room at Genn with eyes that burned with disappointment and anger. Their friendship, it seemed, would remain encased in ice.

Sylvanas’ death would have sent the Horde and the Forsaken into shambles again. What more of outcries from people like Bloodhoof and Saurfang and Lor’themar of the Alliance’s betrayal; at Jaina’s failure to save the Dark Lady in their swelling moment of glory. 

(There were some nights that Jaina dreamt of that moment — of _ failing_. Sometimes she woke with the sheets tangled about her and drenched in sweat; heaving back breaths that carried the smell of ichor and earth and death. The Warchief’s glowing eyes staring back dully at her, lifeless.)

She pushed those thoughts as far back into her mind as she could.

_ I didn’t fail_, she thought, with vicious indignation. _ I didn’t fail then and I won’t fail now. _

She walked in long, angry strides down the hall, uncaring for who she brushed past, or scuttled frantically out of her way. It was only when Alina cleared her throat pointedly beside her that Jaina finally paused in her step, breathing hard from the pace she’d taken.

She blinked. “Alina, where are we?”

“The North Tower, my lady,” Alina rasped.

Jaina stared up at the tower blankly. “Oh.” She glanced up and down along the corridors, seeking something she didn’t quite understand, didn’t quite know, and then she turned to look at the petite dark ranger. “Do you know…?”

Alina glanced pointedly down the hallway to her left just as Sylvanas rounded the corner.

The Dark Lady paused in her step at the sight of them, brows furrowing slightly in surprise. “Jaina? Is there something you needed?”

“No,” she said quickly, sucking in a breath as she gathered herself. “No, I…” she shook her head. “I was just — taking a walk. Needed to clear my head.”

Sylvanas approached them slowly, each step deliberate as she folded her hands behind her back. Without war at hand, she wore a simple but well-tailored jerkin that accentuated the broadness of her shoulders and left her arms bare. She paused in front of Jaina and peered down at her discerningly.

Her tone was surprisingly quiet; gentle, almost, but no less knowing. “You’ve spoken with the Boy-King and his Dog, then.”

It wasn’t a question, so Jaina didn’t deign to answer. Instead, she said, “You said you’d let sleeping dogs lie.”

“It’s not my fault that mutt speaks out of his ass. It’s certainly where his tongue has been more than in his mouth.” Sylvanas crossed her arms over her chest.

Jaina’s eyes drifted down along the lines of her shoulders and the bulge and flex of her arms before snapping back up to her face. A faint heat rose into her cheeks, but the remnant of her anger made her bold. So she stood her ground and met Sylvanas’ gaze with a proud thrust of her chin.

A faint look of amusement crossed the Warchief’s face. “The gardens are coming into full bloom. Would you like to accompany me? The lavenders are lovely this time of year. I hear they’re quite calming.”

Jaina blinked. It was true that she couldn’t explain why her feet had brought her to the tower, but it was more perplexing to her that Sylvanas Windrunner seemed..._ concerned _...about her distress. Breathing out a heavy sigh, she said, “I don’t see the harm in it.” She rubbed at her brow for a moment, pinching at her temples.

“It’s better than turning to the bottle,” she muttered.

Sylvanas stepped closer, offering out an arm to her.

Swallowing, Jaina stared. “Why not,” she croaked, reaching out hesitantly to lay her hand on Sylvanas’ arm. The skin beneath her fingers was cool to the touch and unnaturally smooth —

— and made entirely of muscle.

“So,” Sylvanas said, and Jaina startled slightly. “Shall we?”

Jaina cleared her throat, waving weakly at Alina to dismiss the dark ranger. “You seem a little..._underdressed _today.”

Smirking, Sylvanas gave her arm a gratuitous flex. “I felt like dressing light. Why hide such things under layers of armour when I have no need?”

Jaina pinched the arm she was holding, cheeks flaming slightly. “Vainpot,” she hissed, but there was no true venom there.

Sylvanas laughed, and as they walked, Jaina soon forgot there was ever a reason to be upset about to begin with.

\---------

The seasons passed from cool sunny days into a balmy summer. Months had gone by since the Last War, and Azeroth was beginning to find its footing again. The summer solstice brought a tentative air of merriment; festivities that came from the myriad of cultures that now made up the New Coalition. Jaina delighted in the summer wine; harvested grapes that came from the warmer climes further south in the foothills. There was an abundance of roaring laughter and friendly banter among the taverns and dining halls. Orcs and Tauren and trolls among humans; card games and jaunty tunes and the sweet smell of summer flowers wafting from the city square.

Even the Forsaken, which delighted her the most, were among those who tentatively enjoyed mugs of ale and wine.

Sylvanas did not imbibe much with the crowd, though the Warchief ensured her presence and attendance where necessary. They blessed the harvests together, gave speeches at the height of summer that rallied the farmers and soldiers and all who came together for the sake of the realm.

During those days, Sylvanas would leave them to their merriment.

The pleasant weather was one Jaina savoured, but at times would hide away within the cool interiors of the Keep on days when the sun was too much for her liking. One day, restless but unwilling to brave the heat, she wandered from the South Tower.

The Warchief hadn’t left her rooms for most of the morning. For however disconnected they were in their day, it was still discombobulating for Jaina not to glimpse the curtain of ashen hair along the corridors of the Keep. A faint stir of...not exactly _worry_...but something close enough to it stirred in her chest. 

Curiosity, perhaps.

She paused at the foot of the tower steps, surprised at the absence of Sylvanas’ usual dark ranger sentry. Glancing at Alina, she asked, “Is the Warchief around?”

Alina met her gaze evenly and shrugged. “Kalira might have been sent on errands,” she offered, tilting her head upwards to peer thoughtfully up at the tower. “But I do sense the Dark Lady’s energy.”

Jaina felt it the same. A low, persistent thrum of arcane and necromantic power that bled from Sylvanas in an almost lazy pulse. Pursing her lips, she gave Alina a speaking look and began to ascend the tower. Alina remained by the door, watching her go with impassive eyes that only barely twitched at the corners.

By all accounts, both the North and South Tower were built the same, but as Jaina continued up the winding stairs, she was keenly aware of the sparseness of its interior. She’d always thought the Banshee Queen as someone demanding of luxury; of rich, lush colours and plump pillows and adornments on shelves of her past victories.

She approached the first door to her left; the closest chamber to the stairwell, and found its door ajar. She peered in through the crack carefully, but found only the Warchief’s private study. Neat, martial almost. There were trophies of all sorts adorning her shelves; colours of Silvermoon and the Horde and Forsaken all proudly in view.

Though she itched to push the door open wider, to enter the room, Jaina did not. It was no place of hers to pry.

Instead, she moved away from the study and towards the chamber with its doors wide open. A faint breeze came sweeping in from somewhere within, howling softly through the windows, and Jaina moved towards it slowly.

She saw a large, plush four-poster bed. A solid oak frame with hanging drapes of rich purple. A partition that led towards a large copper tub, and then beyond it — an alcove that Jaina thought to be the armoire. There was a large, full-length mirror at the far end of the room, resting neatly against the wall beside a vanity that held assorted bottles and jars.

Vanity, indeed.

A soft fluttering of cloth drew Jaina’s attention away from the room and towards the open balcony doors. The sunlight filtered in amidst the dancing breeze, veiled by thin curtains that swayed and billowed in soft waves.

Just beyond them, Jaina could make out a figure.

Shrouded behind the swaying gossamer curtains of the balcony was the Warchief. Her long body unfurled over a wicker chaise, arms braced beneath her head with her face turned up into the warm rays of the sun. Jaina moved closer, brows furrowing as she squinted through the curtains, mouth opening to call out —

— and then promptly snapping shut.

Naked.

Sylvanas was entirely naked. Every inch of her body laid bare; the pronounced lines of muscles that seemed to be carved out of stone rippling faintly as she adjusted herself. Broad shoulders that tapered down into an impossibly narrow waist, the slope of her breasts peaked with nipples that were darker purple than the rest of her. She was a canvas of scars, some centuries old and others only months-old, each moving in time with the bulge of her biceps and the tightening of her abs. A faint trail of hair started at her navel, as pale as the hair on her head, but wisping and fine as it ruffled slightly in an idle breeze.

The trail continued down further south, thickening out between a pair of strong, muscular thighs —

Jaina swallowed, but found her throat entirely parched.

A long ear twitched, and glowing red eyes slid open. Sylvanas’ head turned towards her lazily, eyes honing in without effort.

Jaina’s breath hitched, startling slightly at the intensity of Sylvanas’ gaze as she composed herself. “I — I didn’t mean to intrude —”

“You’ve been standing there a while,” Sylvanas replied, in a voice like rich velvet; as if she had been deeply asleep. Jaina knew that she had no need for sleep. “Were you looking for me?”

“Clothes,” Jaina blurted, and couldn’t find the strength to stop herself from staring. “Y-you’re not — wearing clothes.”

The wicker chaise creaked beneath Sylvanas’ weight, and Jaina saw her look down at herself. “Apologies — I wasn’t expecting company. I’ll dress and we can talk, if you like.” Her words resonated in her chest, tapering into a rumble that reminded Jaina vaguely of a cat’s purr.

A sabre cat.

Sylvanas sat up then, her stomach flexing into a tight coil of muscles —

A sharp rush of heat rose in a roaring flame from her belly into her cheeks, burning like a thousand suns on her face.

Sylvanas stood, sunlight gleaming on her hair and casting a shadow over the grooves of her body. She moved, one arm reaching out to brush the curtains aside, and all of her came into view at once.

Jaina turned on her heels and fled.

\--------

It haunted Jaina for the rest of the day.

She returned to her own tower and poured herself a drink. Drank it down in one swallow; wine, bittersweet and heady. And then she poured herself another. When the wine had gone dry, she unravelled her day clothes and bathed in water as cold as she could stand, and then slipped into her lightest sleeping gown for the balmy summer night.

Alina came to her once; murmuring through the door if she’d rather have dinner brought to her.

“I don’t think I’ll want dinner tonight,” she said, brushing her hair out of its braid. “But thank you.”

She continued brushing her hair with an almost frantic pace; more than a hundred times. More than two hundred. It wasn’t until her eyes began to smart from her distant staring that she realised what she was doing. Jaina shoved her brush back into its drawer and strode towards the bed, plucking up the book on her nightstand and burrowing her nose into it.

She tried reading a page. And then she read it again. Her eyes could see the words, but none of them seemed to stick; nothing but the memory of Sylvanas’ lean, long body stretched out, naked and warmed from the sun —

The knock at her door startled Jaina violently. The book fell from her grip, tumbling to the floor and falling open-faced. She sighed, bending down to pluck it from the ground. “Alina, I’m fine. I don’t want dinner.”

The voice that replied was lower than Alina’s; dry and lilting. “Want is not the same as need.”

Jaina paled. Tried to convince herself that the sudden flutter of heat in her belly and the sudden giddiness was nothing but the effects of wine drank on an empty stomach. She contemplated, briefly, burrowing into her covers and pretending to sleep, but it would’ve been as ridiculous as it was rude.

“Sylvanas?” she called out, though she already knew.

The wry voice that responded told her that Sylvanas knew as much. “Jaina.”

There was a pause then; a sort of stalemate between them as Jaina stared at the doors. It would be easy to send her away. So easy. Sylvanas was an arrogant shit most of the time, but the one thing she never did was push. There were times when their arguments came to a head, and sometimes blows were dealt, but there had never been a time when she didn’t respect Jaina’s wishes.

For the most part.

Instead, Jaina lifted a hand. With a low murmur, a faint glow formed at her fingertips, and the door handle unlatched.

The doors swung open slowly to reveal Sylvanas standing there, silver tray in hand. She lingered by the doorway for a moment, peering into the room with a faint sort of curiosity and amusement. Her ears swivelled and flicked, her glowing eyes sweeping across the space before landing on Jaina.

Lifting the tray with a slight flourish, she drawled, “Room service.”

Jaina flushed, pulling her knees up under the covers and resting her book on them. “I’m really not hungry,” she insisted.

Sylvanas entered the room slowly; deliberately. Jaina became aware of the fact that she was wearing a sleeveless tunic yet again, tucked into a pair of high-waisted leggings that had no business moulding to the shape of her body so. “Alina mentioned you drank at least three glasses of wine this evening without food. I didn’t quite take you for a lush.”

“I would’ve conjured a mana cake if I wanted one,” she replied, rather defensively.

The Warchief inclined her head obligingly. They stared at each other for a long moment; Sylvanas from the foot of her bed, and Jaina from beneath the covers. 

Red eyes roved from her face down below her neck for an instant before snapping back up impassively. “I came with ulterior motives,” Sylvanas admitted, and something tightened low in her belly. When she dared to pull her face out of the book, she saw the tray of food and the bare length of the arms holding it.

She eyed them warily.

Sylvanas noticed but said nothing. She pulled open the cover of the tray, revealing a dish of trout cooked in a fragrant green sauce and an appetiser plate of bread, butter, and cheese.

Despite herself, Jaina’s stomach made a loud groan of longing.

She blushed deeply as Sylvanas let out a puff of air through her nose. Pulling the book further over her face, she glowered at the Warchief over the top of it. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”

“Not the sort of motive I was thinking of, no,” Sylvanas drawled, setting the tray down at the foot of the bed and stepping back. “If you’d like to eat in peace, I’ll leave you to it.” She made a slight bow at the hip.

Jaina rolled her eyes mildly at the pomp and reluctantly set the book aside. “You might as well tell me what those ‘motives’ are while I eat. It’ll be dinner and a show.”

Sylvanas gave her an indiscernible look, but Jaina ducked her head and focused instead on peeling apart the dinner loaf and dipping the end of it in the green sauce. It was a familiar flavour; white wine, parsley, mint. A faint bite of lemon and pepper.

She swallowed and dared to look up — blinking when she found Sylvanas watching her intently.

“Sit.” She gestured impatiently about the room. “And stop staring. It’s rude.”

The Banshee Queen smirked and carefully folded herself down on the end of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, her knee brushing against the curve of Jaina’s thigh through the blankets as she settled. She watched for a moment longer before speaking. “You fled from my rooms rather abruptly today. I merely wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t mean to frighten you so.”

“_Frighten?_” That wasn’t the word Jaina would have used. “You didn’t _frighten_ me. I just — wanted to give you some privacy.”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “_After _you invaded said privacy?”

Jaina speared a piece of the trout and shoved it into her mouth to avoid replying. They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the wind outside her window filling the space between them. She swallowed her bite and found a flagon of wine held out to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking it in hand. Staring down at it, she said, “I just wanted to check if _ you _ were alright.”

Sylvanas was quiet for a moment. “..._me_?”

“Yes, you. You weren’t anywhere during the day. I thought you might be brooding in your tower. It was such a lovely day out. I know you hate the very idea of a pleasant anything.”

“Quite the contrary,” Sylvanas drawled, unmoved by the acerbity of her tone. “I simply wanted to enjoy the day on my own terms. In my own way.”

“By lounging about naked?” Jaina sipped her wine, meeting Sylvanas’ gaze with an arched brow.

Patiently, Sylvanas said, “People stare. I’ve learned to adjust to it. But no matter how accustomed I become to being gawked at, it’s still not a pretty sight for many.”

Jaina blinked. “What?” She wasn’t even sure they were talking about the same things anymore.

“People still whisper about Frostmourne’s mark on me. I don’t tend to bare my flesh in public for that reason.”

Oh. A wave of shame rushed through Jaina. She hadn’t even been thinking about it at the time. In fact, she couldn’t last recall the time she looked at Sylvanas and thought of...well, anything outside of Sylvanas, really. Or work. Least of all _ Arthas_.

Biting her lips, she said, “I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have stared.” She lifted her eyes to give Sylvanas a furtive look. “For the record, though — I wasn’t looking at _ that_.”

A slow look of coyness and knowing appeared on Sylvanas’ face, and Jaina narrowed her eyes at the distant wall. The words came with an undertone of bitterness that belied the arrogance. “Then what, pray, had you running helter-skelter from the sight of me?”

“The fact that you were _ naked_. That’s not exactly what I was expecting when I went to check on you.”

“I never took you for a prude. I know the Alliance are _fascinated_ with the way the Undead function. Am I so terrifying to you that you won’t look me in the eye now?”

It was strange — the flare of righteous indignation that built in her belly. Jaina was used to feeling it whenever they argued (or is it bicker? People don’t bicker with former tyrants of enemy factions), but what surprised her was the fact that she couldn’t pinpoint if she was more indignant about what Sylvanas was implying about her...or _ herself_.

Setting her jaw, Jaina met Sylvanas’ gaze stubbornly. “You don’t _ frighten _ me. Neither do you _ terrify _ me.” She gave the Warchief a hard look, though she couldn’t quite understand yet, what was it she wanted to convey. “Least of all do you _ disgust _me.”

A strange, flickering look passed over Sylvanas’ face then, and an indescribable tension filled the room around them. It prickled over the fine hairs on her arm and the back of her neck, and Jaina suppressed a shiver at it in the humid warmth. They didn’t quite speak for a moment too long; the silence was heavy and awkward. To keep herself from running her mouth and filling the empty space, Jaina ate more fish and drank more wine.

Finally, at length, Sylvanas spoke once more, clearing her throat. “Perhaps...I should let you eat in peace.” She rose slowly from the end of the bed and Jaina was all too aware of the empty space she left. Shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, she said quietly, “Goodnight, Jaina. In the future...knock, yes?”

Jaina hid her burning cheeks behind a curtain of hair as she looked down at the silver tray. “Thank you,” she mumbled, as Sylvanas moved towards the door. “For dinner, and…” she swallowed; the heady taste of wine clinging to the back of her throat. It reminded her of muggy summer days and billowing curtains in the breeze.

“...thank you for checking up on me.”

Sylvanas paused at the door, peering at her sidelong for a moment. “You’re welcome. Pleasant dreams, wife.” The doors came together in a low thud, and Jaina was alone.

That night, she dreamt of warm summer breezes and a body pressed to her on a wicker chaise; strangely cool.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for gay fatigue, blood, and other unrequited things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you remember that i have a thing for blood and teeth

II

\------

On a warm, syrupy day, when the heat was too much even for Jaina, she spent time in the library. It was a private one, a small nook of nothing more than a few shelves lined with books and a plush armchair and chaise by the window. Nestling down onto the chaise, she savoured the sunlight and the gentle dance of wind that came in through the open panes as she read.

It wasn’t long before the warmth of the day began to creep into her senses; began to lure her eyes into drooping and her head into lolling back against the chaise. She forced herself upright, blinking back sleep from the periphery of her mind as she buried her nose deeper into the book.

The library door creaking open startled her even more awake, and Jaina blinked when she saw Sylvanas Windrunner slipping into the room.

Sylvanas paused, peering down at her. Their eyes met and held for a moment. “Proudmoore. Pardon the intrusion, I was just looking for a book.” Her eyes dropped down to Jaina’s hands, then widened slightly. “That one, in particular.”

Jaina looked down at her book. _ History in Poetry: The Rise of the Quel’dorei. _

Cocking her head to the side, Sylvanas remarked, “I didn’t know you understood Thalassian.”

“I don't really,” she admitted, drawing her legs closer and tucking them under her thighs slightly. “I know enough for polite conversation about the weather, but my history and depth are lacking.”

“Hmmm.” Sylvanas moved further into the room slowly, gesturing towards the armchair. “Do you mind if I sat?”

Without thought, she said, “Not at all. You can tell me if my pronunciation is right.”

Perhaps without even further thought, Jaina moved slightly on the chaise, opening space beside her as an unspoken invitation. Sylvanas eyed it for a moment, apparently considering the options presented before slowly and cautiously moving to her side. The Warchief lowered herself gingerly down onto the chaise; their thighs pressing together slightly, shoulders brushing.

The coolness of her skin in contrast to the damp heat made Jaina shiver.

Clearing her throat rather pointedly, she pulled open the book and began to read aloud. Thalassian wasn’t unwieldy on her tongue, but inexperience meant Sylvanas was correcting her mildly every few sentences and paragraphs.

“_ And so come the child of the sun — _”

“_— _ _ so **came** the child of the sun._ The past tense of that word is _ came_. Pull your tongue back slightly and feel the roll of the syllables in your throat.”

“..._so came the child of the sun_…”

“Your inflexion needs some practice.”

Jaina gave her an exasperated look over the book. She pinned her place on the page with a finger as she shut the book and thumped Sylvanas lightly on the chest with it. “Alright, miss nitpick. Would you care to give me an example?”

Sylvanas glanced down at the book pressed to her chest, arching a brow as she slowly reached up and took it from Jaina’s hold. 

Their fingers brushed as she slid one between the pages, replacing the one Jaina had placed there. “....very well.” She cleared her throat and opened the book with a flourish. Then she began to recite.

Jaina had to admit — it was certainly a prettier sound to hear than her own voice. Sylvanas’ low, resonating voice carried the inflexion and lilt of a native speaker, but there was something that appealed to her ears more than the times she’d heard people like Vereesa and Tyrande speak Thalassian.

The Warchief was surprisingly patient throughout; when Jaina would stop her and ask about certain words or pronunciations. Sometimes she repeated lines slowly, other times Sylvanas turned the book back to Jaina and had her pronounce it instead.

On a whim, Jaina leaned slightly against Sylvanas, tilting her head so they could both read easily. “You should have been a poet, Dark Lady. You certainly have the flair.”

Sylvanas made a derisive sniff. “All elves do. It's in our blood to be dramatic.”

“And haughty.”

“_Obviously._”

Eventually, Sylvanas returned the book to her hands, urging her to read the next poem that came; _ They Who Ran with the Wind_. Jaina eyed the elf mildly as she read, becoming keenly aware of the way the Warchief was pressed in so close, the curtain of ashen hair that fell in a waft of tulips, petrichor, and cold steel. The shift and flex of an arm as it came around her shoulder to point out a specific sentence, the faint puff of air that came very painfully close to Jaina’s ear.

Steeling herself and the strange kindling warmth in her belly, Jaina continued reading and hoped the strain in her throat wasn’t as obvious as she thought.

It wasn’t long before the summer heat made Jaina drowsy, and as she worked her way through a passage about the Sunwell, her eyes began to droop. They had spread out at some point; adjusting themselves more comfortable on the chaise such that she was leaning rather comfortably against Sylvanas’ chest. It was only easier, she told herself — to have the Warchief hovering behind her instead of looming in her periphery. 

If Sylvanas thought anything of it, she did not say. For that, Jaina was grateful.

At some point, she began to mumble her words, to repeat some lines. Sylvanas made no move to correct or chide her, only continued quietly where she left off. The book began to droop in her hold, and Jaina was only vaguely aware of a large hand coming up to support the spine of it.

Perhaps she’d close her eyes for just a moment. Just for an instant…

\-----

Jaina woke with a jolt and a gasp, jerking upright slightly. Disoriented from sleep, she wiped at her mouth out of habit, blinking as she became aware of the faint rumble of a purr against her back. Looking up with bleary eyes, she saw Sylvanas peering down at her with faint amusement.

Flushing slightly, she mumbled, “How long was I asleep?”

“A little while,” Sylvanas answered quietly, mouth curving still with amusement. “You snore, did you know?”

Jaina thumped her on the shoulder. “I do not.”

“I dare say I have a more objective opinion on that.”

She huffed, pushing herself upright, but Sylvanas’ hand came up to rest on her stomach gently, broad and encompassing. Surprisingly warm. 

“It’s alright,” the Warchief murmured. “I don’t mind. You can rest if you like.”

There was a hitch in her breath that Jaina couldn’t place. “You must be uncomfortable.”

“...I am not.”

Jaina looked up at Sylvanas for a long moment, searching the Warchief’s face for something like mockery. Instead she found..._ something_. She wasn’t quite sure she was awake enough to decipher it. Instead, she mumbled, “Alright.” Carefully, she adjusted herself, resting back against a now-warm chest and tucking her head against Sylvanas’ neck.

Said chest began to rumble faintly in a purr and a low thrum of words as Sylvanas calmly began to read again.

Before long, Jaina began to doze again. As she drifted slowly into sleep, she remembered the spill of sunlight through the trellis in the window and the low lilt of Thalassian in her ear.

She woke in her own bed, carefully tucked beneath the covers. Her feet bare and her belt uncinched from her waist; rolled neatly and set aside on her bedside table. Perched there the same was the book, a note slotted into the page they must have left off at. In scrawling, elegant handwritten script, it read:

_ Same time tomorrow? _

\------

The aftermath of war was, more often than not, more unrest. There was peace, for a time, yes; Jaina knew the tenuous sort of peace that came after such devastation. The brace for something yet to come — the traumas that lingered and made her constantly wonder _ what next_? Azeroth was healing, but not all of its inhabitants were quite prepared to transition from dissonance and chaos.

In all honesty, Jaina expected more of it in its early days. The people of their opposing factions had taken some time to adjust to coexist within the same space, but the initial animosities boiled down to teething problems more than anything.

The general consensus among the Horde and Alliance was simple. They were tired of fighting.

(Though, Jaina hated to admit that those who were struggling the most with their union were all Alliance members. Leaders and soldiers alike — the most who spat slurs and brawled in taverns were all those of the human race and bearing their flawed belief still of some sort of _ purity _ among the ranks.

Those were the ones Jaina took the most pleasure in sentencing when they came to court. There was no tolerance for intolerance, and she was tired of making excuses for it as well.)

The dissent had come expectedly...though its target was certainly not. Jaina knew that there would be many who looked at her and saw only a traitor, as someone who forsook her own people and their beliefs. People still looked at her marriage to Sylvanas and saw it as something _ unnatural_, despite the fact that their marriage had been the only thing keeping the Alliance and Horde from tearing apart at the seams.

Denial and anger brewed a potent kind of venom in the blood.

It happened on a night like any other night.

It was late in the summer, when the leaves shed their final colours and the weather began to temper. They took to eating together on an open balcony in the Keep, for the cool evening air and a pretty view of the gardens in late bloom. It was a quiet affair, full of only their ribbing conversation and a tension that seemed to fester between them no matter the occasion. Since their first little poetry reading session, they had only enough time to meet twice more.

The infrequency of it made Jaina strangely bereft.

Regardless, their meals were certainly far more tolerable now than they were at the beginning of their marriage.

“Can you believe it’s been four years?” She gestured from across the dining table at the space between them. “I was pretty sure we’d kill each other by the end of the first month.”

Sylvanas made a thoughtful hum, tapping her fingers idly against the table. “Frankly, I didn’t expect to end the ceremony without _ some _ bloodshed,” she drawled, eyes gleaming at Jaina impishly. “If I recall correctly —there _ was _ blood.”

“Only because you challenged Genn to a drinking competition.”

“I never _ challenged _ anyone; I merely implied —”

“You _ implied _that ‘a dog worth its weight in mead was equal to the worth of your little finger’.”

“...I didn’t think he’d understand the figure of speech.”

“Well, he did. I still smell the beer and blood every time I walk into the Great Hall.”

“Be grateful you don’t still smell the vomit as well.”

“Do _ you_?”

“All too clearly.”

Jaina wrinkled her nose. “Fair enough.”

The servant came and refilled her glass. He moved to Sylvanas to do the same, but she placed her hand over the rim, shaking her head slightly. He hesitated for an instant, but bowed and rapidly disappeared behind the balcony doors. Jaina watched him go curiously, taking another swallow of her wine. It wasn’t anything unusual for servants and soldiers alike to flee from sight as quickly as possible in their presence, but a faint prickle of familiarity lingered in the back of her mind.

Shrugging, Jaina drank more, watching as Sylvanas dipped more bread into the rich stew. It was an interesting thing; watching the Banshee Queen eat. It didn’t always look like she particularly enjoyed much of what she consumed, but she ate with the delicacy and poise of a Queen nevertheless.

She licked her fingers clean slowly, and Jaina looked away, taking another swallow of wine. They sat in the quiet, exchanging idle conversation that fell comfortably between them now.

“I’ve often wondered about the way the Boy-King still calls you ‘Auntie’. He’s a man grown now.”

Jaina shrugged. “An aunt is an aunt no matter how old you become. It’s not something you outgrow, and besides — I don’t mind it. It was a nice feeling when he was younger. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to be a real one.” It hurt, sometimes, to think of Derek and Tandred. Though she supposed that she should only be grateful that Tandred was home now; that he’d settled quite comfortably in Kul Tiras.

Married, now. With a tow-headed boy for a son and another babe on the way.

Sylvanas pursed her lips and made a thoughtful hum. “It is certainly better than being thought a monster by your own blood.”

“...they don’t think of you that way, you know,” she murmured, peering at the Warchief softly. “Not anymore, at least.”

A bitter smile curved on Sylvanas’ face. “I’m not so delusional to believe I can be redeemed in the eyes of my sisters or their children, Jaina. I’ve made my peace with it.”

Sighing, Jaina did not press the matter. She knew better by now; family was a sore spot for both of them. Though Vereesa and Alleria often made visits throughout the year, they did so quietly, and rarely ever within sight of the Warchief. It was Sylvanas’ own choice by that point to keep apart from them — and she did not push.

Instead, she blinked up at the twinkling night sky, fighting back a sudden rush of giddiness. She frowned, peering at her goblet strangely. “The wine’s a little bitter today.”

“A poor vintage, perhaps. I can have them open a new bottle,” Sylvanas offered.

She shook her head and the world started to tip. She felt a tingle spread over her tongue, sharp and bitter. She tried to swallow it back and found herself unable to do even that. Her throat tightened abruptly, forcing out a choke of air from her lips as she struggled to force in another breath. A hard stab of agony built in her stomach, churning and roiling, burning like hot oil up into her chest and throat, saliva pooling in her mouth that she only choked further on.

“Jaina? Jaina!”

She heard the clatter and scrape of chairs being shoved away; the shattering of glass on the floor as she struggled upright out of her seat. She clawed at her throat frantically, but no matter how desperately she willed her magic to come to the surface — it lay smothered beneath a thick fog of vertigo.

She fell but did not touch the ground. Sylvanas dove for her, hauling her up into a vice grip as she sputtered and gasped. She could feel the blackness starting to close in around her eyes, the faraway sound of Sylvanas’ low voice calling her name.

“Jaina! Stop clawing at yourself, you’ll bleed. Don’t — it must’ve been that damned wine. _Alina! Summon a healer **now**!”_

Jaina felt a hand cup her cheek, fingers gripping tight to her skin. Sylvanas muttered something harshly in Thalassian, tugging and yanking at her collar until it split open with a rip, but there was no air to breathe. She tried to open her mouth to speak —

—only to choke.

Sylvanas hissed and cursed viciously, fingers pressed tight to Jaina’s cheek. “Move aside, don’t crowd her, damn it! Kalira, a perimeter! Someone hunt down that wretched servant — the damned one who poured the wine!”

“Dark Lady, her lips! They’re turning blue!”

Sylvanas swore again. “She’ll swallow her tongue before that damned healer comes. The doors! Someone mind the doors!” She looked, as far as Jaina could see, torn between something like rage and hesitation and worry. There was a deep furrow in her brow and a hard gleam in her eye as she yanked at the collar aside again expose more skin.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, baring fangs that looked suddenly too long for her mouth. “This is the only way.”

She dove down as she pulled Jaina up — and then it was agony.

The shout strangled Jaina, her trembling hands clawing and shoving at Sylvanas as the Banshee Queen bit down deep into her neck. She writhed and bucked as much as she could, but there was no escaping the brutal vice of teeth sunk into her flesh. It broke skin, that much she knew, and her vision flashed white and black as she felt Sylvanas’ jaw flex.

The smell of blood permeated the air, thick and cloying as Jaina gasped and moaned and tried desperately to form words. “S—” 

The heavy grip of Sylvanas’ hand on the back of her neck and the iron hold of teeth kept her in place, and Jaina fought to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head.

Blood ran down her neck and soaked deep into her collar, matting into her hair, but Sylvanas kept drinking. She could feel each pull and swallow of that powerful neck; a deep, echoing growl vibrating from it that grew louder and louder as Jaina’s head grew lighter.

Sylvanas pressed a hand to her chest and she gasped.

It was a power like she’d never felt before. Pouring back into her as she bled into Sylvanas’ mouth. Sharp, buzzing strength of something like arcane but..._ corrupt_, somehow. No, not corrupt — _ altered_. It flowed through her veins like blood, like mana, filling into the spaces that seemed to yearn for it. Filling, and yet, draining. Like a siphon of power that worked in an endless cycle of loss and gain.

Sylvanas tightened her mouth over Jaina’s neck briefly, her tongue snaking over the skin between her teeth. A heavy, grating sound rumbled from between her lips — a moan.

Jaina opened her eyes wide and gasped, and her lungs filled greedily with air. Her fingers found strength in them to tighten her grip on Sylvanas’ shoulders, but found them...broader. Her nails dug into muscles and felt the hard ridge of something akin to animal hide; to the protrusions of feathers or fur straining through cloth. She sucked in another breath and smelled earth and moss and petrichor — the scent of the forest.

A cacophony of voices erupted, calling out to them at once.

A ragged whimper spilt from Jaina’s throat when Sylvanas unclamped her jaw. Even through swooning eyes, the sight of the blood on her chin was dark and thick. It ran in rivulets from her mouth, a stark contrast to the paleness of her face as her glowing eyes seemed to blaze like whorls of brimstone. She growled, and it was a wholly animal sound. 

“A healing draught,” she barked. “— something. Anything! _ Quickly!”_

The arms that held Jaina were suddenly far stronger, muscles bulging and straining against the fabric of the doublet that was now stained in her blood. She felt Sylvanas rock back on her haunches, rising in a surge of strength, and in those arms, she suddenly felt..._small_. Weightless.

Her eyes rolled back and the world went dark.

\------

Jaina woke the next morning feeling like death.

Her head rang like a thousand paladins descending on her skull, and she could barely stand to lift her head from the pillow. Her tongue rasped against the roof of her mouth like the skin of a great white, and when she swallowed, it was like a mouthful of nails grating on her throat.

She whimpered, reaching with a hand that weighed like the heaviest of anchors up to her throat.

“_Jaina_.”

She peeled open her eyes, wincing at the sting of sunlight. It was gone in the next moment, replaced by the looming figure of her wife. She groaned softly, wincing still as she opened her eyes just enough to squint up at the hovering face.

“Sy—” A cough spasmed up into her chest, a wrenching sort of pain that left Jaina trembling and prickled with cold sweat.

A cool hand slid along her back, rubbing gently. “Don’t strain yourself,” Sylvanas murmured from somewhere beside her. “The healers have barely managed to get your organs sorted. Try not to speak too much yet — your throat is still raw.”

Jaina sighed faintly, watching as Sylvanas moved away and returned with a glass of water. She drank slowly, stiffly, until each swallow felt less like blades scraping down her neck. She handed the glass back, her throat seizing and tightening. Muscles relearning its nature.

“Ease into it,” Sylvanas warned. “Your muscles are recovering from paralytics. They might be uncomfortable yet.”

She reached up and touched her throat gingerly. Then, peering at her wife, Jaina rasped, “Are _ you _ alright?”

The Warchief’s ear flicked, though her face remained impressively unreadable. “I am unscathed,” she said.

“Y-you drank — the wine, too.”

“I barely had a few sips. The Undead are not affected by poisons as the living.”

The frigid tone told Jaina enough, but Sylvanas touched her cheek and brushed her hair behind an ear with a gentleness that startled her. Cool, callused fingertips pressed delicately against her throat, palpating the skin there. “Swallow.”

Jaina stared.

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes slightly with impatience. “I don’t like repeating myself, Proudmoore. _ Swallow _.”

She did. It was a sensation somewhere between numbness and the pins-and-needles that came after it.

Sylvanas pursed her lips, and her fingers flexed slightly against Jaina’s throat before she slowly removed her hand. “Well, the good news is that you’re healed. The bad news is that you’ll likely be hoarse for a few days.” Red eyes lingered on her throat for a moment longer. “And sore.”

Jaina remembered the ache of fangs sinking into her skin and winced again. “What was it?” she croaked. There were a thousand war drums and tolling bells in her head; Tides, how much had she _ drunk_? “In the wine. What — what did they put in it?”

Sylvanas looked away, jaw set. Eventually she ground out the answer. “Hemlock.”

_ Hemlock_.

Were she in the condition to do so, Jaina would’ve laughed. How fitting it would have been to die by hemlock. As far as some believed, she was nothing more than a witch. It was certainly one of the kinder names she’d been called. It would’ve been a damned laughable thing; someone as powerful as her, as an archmage — felled by something like _ hemlock_.

Instead, she sighed, palming at her sore neck gingerly again. “What —” she cleared her throat hoarsely, brows furrowing at the ache. “What were you doing? When you b-bit —” A faint tingle roiled in her belly, and Jaina shivered at it. “When you drank my blood.”

Flaming eyes glanced at her sidelong, and for a moment, Sylvanas was silent. There was something in the way she held herself; stiff and distant, a wall of ice that was slowly building back into place. “I did what I had to do,” she said. “You would have died otherwise.”

Jaina frowned. “You d-drank — but you would’ve —”

“I did what I had to,” she repeated, an edge to her voice. She rose slowly from the bed, never once looking back. She paused only once, at the door, to spare Jaina a fleeting look over her shoulder. “Rest for now. I must have words with my rangers.” Her voice grew dark and vicious, and it made Jaina shiver again.

“We will find the ones responsible..._and we will make them pay_.”

\-----

Jaina didn’t touch another drop of wine.

She had never been much of a drinker to begin with, but it had been a good harvest that season. The wine was sweet and the days were warm, and it swept her into a haze of good times and a floating sense of euphoria. She should’ve known better, really, but Jaina hadn’t felt such ease and calm in years.

A fat load of good that did her.

Attempts on her life weren’t new. After living through the number of wars she had, Jaina thought of them as a reprieve from the everyday bloodshed and chaos. She had expected as much, even now, with peace; she expected it more, even.

What was most unexpected was Sylvanas’ behaviour after the fact.

She did not see hide nor hair of her wife for days. Sylvanas was polite, but..._distant _ despite their proximity. It often felt as if she was being tolerated at best, and Jaina loathed the feeling. Each time she tried to prod at her wife for an indication of _ why _ was promptly and rather coldly dismissed. 

Though it was the height of summer, things between her and Sylvanas had frosted into a biting chill.

It was a balmy midday, and she had been curled up in a chair by the window reading when the Warchief appeared at the door.

“He’s dead.”

Jaina blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s dead,” Sylvanas repeated slowly, without inflexion. “Once he was thoroughly interrogated and all information acquired, the assassin was promptly excised from this mortal realm. And the Undead one.”

Jaina blinked rapidly, sitting upright in her seat and setting her book aside. “You _ killed _ him?”

“He was _ executed_. There’s a difference.”

“Without trial?” she demanded. “Without charges? We have no proof —”

“He confessed.”

“Under duress, no doubt,” Jaina growled.

Sylvanas pursed her lips as her ears flattened slightly with irritation. “I will not be ashamed of it,” she said bluntly. “You were hurt. You could have died. I will not apologise for the way the matter was addressed. He cursed and swore at you, at me. He vowed that there would be more who would try, and perhaps yet succeed. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to cower in the face of...whatever this was. Execution wasn’t her preferred method of handling things like dissent, and they had a history of having a difference of opinion on the matter. But there was no point arguing over it if the damned assassin was already dead in the ground. Or wherever else Sylvanas put his body parts.

If there were any left.

Sighing, Jaina peered at her wife with a frown. “That doesn’t mean we can just execute people whenever we feel like it. We’ve been through this before; seen other people try. If they didn’t commit suicide-by-combat, then they were all judged fairly and sentenced.”

“I judged him guilty,” Sylvanas said brusquely, straightening her posture into a stiff and officious pose “As such, he was sentenced accordingly.”

Jaina stared for a long, pensive moment. Tentatively, she asked, “Sylvanas, are you — have I upset you somehow?”

“No.”

“Yet somehow I feel like I’ve upset you.”

“You haven’t.”

Jaina pursed her lips and looked harder at Sylvanas. After four years of marriage, she liked to think that she understood some facets of her wife’s display of emotions. “Are you — are you upset at me for _ being poisoned__?”_

At last, a reaction. The sharp furrow of her brows and flash of her red eyes. “_ Of course not_. I —.” Sylvanas stopped abruptly, sighing through her nose as her mouth curled into a scowl. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Then don’t argue with me,” Jaina said irritably. “But if you’re quite done, I’d like to get back to my book.” She gestured towards the door.

The Warchief lingered.

“There is one more thing that I came to discuss with you,” Sylvanas said then, somewhat hesitantly. “The towers...are a fair distance from one another. I would not be at ease knowing that such an incident could occur again and there would be no way of reaching you before…” She inhaled sharply and looked away.

Jaina looked at her curiously.

Sylvanas puffed out a breath. “What I mean to say is that it might be worthwhile for you to consider moving from the South Tower into the Main Keep.”

She blinked. “Move?”

“I would move the same,” Sylvanas added. “To the Keep. You may keep to the South Wing if you prefer, and I the North. Or conversely.”

Jaina pursed her lips, tapping her fingers restlessly against the hardcover of the book.

At her silence, Sylvanas continued carefully. “It would only be safer. For both of us. To be closer to one another.”

“Closer.”

“Yes.”

“The North and South Wings are both quite a distance from one another still,” Jaina noted, peering at Sylvanas thoughtfully. “Closer than the Towers, yes, but still...a fair distance.”

Sylvanas’ ear flicked slightly. “You would still have your own space. I wouldn’t deny you that,” she said slowly. “But...if you prefer...I shall move to the Main Wing of the Keep. Closest to the South Wing. Should you have need of me.”

Jaina hummed. Moving would be the most practical thing to do; to keep each other within sight. Had they not been dining together, it was likely the hemlock would have taken hold of her long before anyone realised. The previous threats had all simply been handled by doubling the security of her Tower. A multiplying of her guards.

Though she supposed, none of them had ever come so close to succeeding.

Very quietly, she said, “The Main Wing has the Great Chamber, no? Two bedrooms. A shared living room. Separate studies.”

“...is that what you desire?” Sylvanas murmured, a flickering, unreadable gleam in her eyes. “Proximity and privacy at once?”

“You said you wouldn’t deny me my space, but you want to keep an eye on me. This is the best solution I can imagine,” Jaina replied mildly.

After a pause, Sylvanas gave her a slight bow. “As you wish. I will send for the servants to help you pack your things.”

“Will you be joining me for dinner?” Purely rhetorical — Sylvanas had made it a habit of testing everything that was served to her, and rarely left her side throughout dinner and for some few hours beyond.

Sylvanas gave her a knowing look. “Fish or beef tonight?”

Jaina tapped the spine the book against her chin and lips thoughtfully. “Beef, perhaps. Bloody.” Sometimes, in the quietest moments of the shifting dawn, she swallowed and tasted bitterness and rust in her throat. Blood and wine, and her belly would ache with such a yearning.

The Warchief’s eyes bore into her face critically. “Do you crave it often?” she asked quietly.

“Beef?”

“_Blood_.”

The slow roll of the word on Sylvanas’ tongue made Jaina’s breath hitch slightly. She could feel the penetrating gaze of glowing red eyes on her face, but could not bring herself to meet them. Instead, she turned her face down to her book, tracing the edges of its pages with a casualness she hardly felt. “Everyone has a little bit of bloodthirst in them, don’t they?”

“You like your meat roasted or fall-off-the-bone rich. You don’t stomach underdone meat,” Sylvanas told her, with a troubled look on her face. “Lately, you’ve been asking for your steaks medium-rare. Once before, blue.”

“Maybe I’ve just been needing the iron,” she insisted testily, shooting the Warchief a pointed look. “I did lose a fair bit of blood.”

Sylvanas clenched her jaw and looked away. “It has been days, Jaina. If you’re still unwell, I would summon a healer. You’ve also been awake at odd hours of the night. Working, no doubt. You have more coffee now.” She glanced at the mug sitting unobtrusively on the table beside the chaise.

Jaina blinked. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot of things about you.”

The room fell away into a heavy silence. Sylvanas said nothing further, sparing only a quick bow before spinning on her heels and leaving. Jaina watched her go for a moment longer before sinking back against the chaise with a sigh.

She picked up the still-warm mug of coffee from the table and took a long swallow. There was still a remnant of ache in her throat, tender still from the bite that Sylvanas had carved into her skin.

The thought haunted her still. Those vicious fangs on her neck, the low, endless growl from a monstrous throat. It concerned her that she couldn’t remember much else from that night; only wine and wicked teeth.

It concerned Jaina that the stir in her belly wasn’t entirely fear.

That night, Sylvanas returned with her steak. Bloody, as she asked; and accompanied by a dish of blood sausage. They sat and ate together, though conversation was token at best. The air between them was nearly alive with a myriad of things unspoken; things Jaina wasn’t even sure she knew how to begin addressing. Instead, they sat on the carpeted floor and ate their fill, and she tried to ignore the smear of copper on the Banshee Queen’s lips.

She went to bed that night and dreamt of a blood-red tongue and white pointed teeth pressed to her skin.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina's gay is getting harder to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behold a 7k chapter for u bbs
> 
> and then we make threads of silk happen again i promise i haven't forgotten my firstborn i'm just a bad mother

III

\-------

Relations between the Old Alliance and Horde became predictably fraught with tension. The underlying hostilities came to a head as it always did — starting with Genn’s wild outbursts and blustering indignation. Jaina had braced for it, but that didn’t mean that the ugliness of it all didn’t gall her immensely. Sitting with her back pressed to the high-backed chair, she watched wearily as Genn leapt out of his seat, all but spitting as he rounded on Sylvanas.

“This had to be your doing, banshee! The gods take you and your kind — I knew we should’ve left you on that battlefield to die.”

“Have care with your words, Greymane,” Sylvanas said coldly, her eyes the only indicator of her ire. “It was no Forsaken that poisoned her wine, but your own brood. Your own spiteful humanity that would rather see the Lord Admiral dead than in peace with the Forsaken.”

“Can you blame them? Knowing you, it would be a kindness than to have her suffer another day as your hostage.”

Lor’themar scowled from the other side of Sylvanas. “Why am I not surprised that the Alliance would justify such an attempt on the Lord Admiral’s life? I’m almost tempted to ask of your whereabouts on the night it occurred.”

Genn glowered at him. “I care about Jaina more than any of your knife-eared lot do. I’d never lay a finger on her.”

“Back to the slurs, are we?” Sylvanas drawled. “Shall I brace myself for ‘heartless scum’ and ‘withered bitch’ as well? ‘Rotten, tainted abominations’?”

“Now look here, you —”

“Stop this!” Jaina barked, levelling him with a withering look from across the table. “I’m sitting right here,” she hissed. “I’m getting tired of hearing you talk about me like I’m some sort of feeble-minded damsel you need to rescue from a locked tower.”

“This damned marriage almost cost you your life, Jaina. You can’t expect me to be at peace with that!” Genn insisted.

“It’s my choice to make!” Jaina snarled, wincing slightly as her throat stung from the volume.

“Enough.” Sylvanas glanced at her furtively, reaching out to slide the glass of water on the table closer to her. “I’m quite tired of hearing your incessant barking, Greymane. King Wrynn, if you and your Alliance have nothing more to offer, then get out of my sight. The security of my wife will be managed by our own hands and no one else’s.”

“Like hell it is —”

Anduin rose from his seat, the low glare on his face made it a close resemblance to that of his father’s. “Genn, that is _ enough_.” He gave Sylvanas a look, inclining his head graciously. “My apologies, Warchief. Jaina. Please continue.”

Instead, Jaina raised her voice from beside the Warchief. “Sylvanas and I have spoken at length on the matter. We have agreed to relocate to the Great Chamber of the Main Wing.”

The room went still. Anduin paled somewhat, which was a stark contrast to the purple that Genn had become. “The...Great Chamber?”

“Yes.”

“That’s...that’s very close together, Jaina.”

“I am aware,” she said, the warning clear in her voice.

Anduin looked at the space between them for a long moment. “If I may, Auntie. I’d like to speak with you myself on the matter.”

Jaina caught the eye-roll that Sylvanas made at the title. “...do what you must. She will only repeat all that I’ve told you.” The Warchief rose from her seat abruptly. “If there is nothing else, King Wrynn, this meeting is adjourned. Take your bristling dog from here before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.”

Genn stormed out of the council room without further encouragement, swearing at her as he went. Sylvanas made no show of reacting, short of the low tilt of her ears. She stared hard at Genn’s retreating back for a long moment before glancing at Jaina over her nose. “When you’re finished, I’d like to speak with you the same.”

Jaina nodded, reaching out to grasp Sylvanas’ wrist gently. “Find me at the library, maybe?” she asked, with a speaking look.

Sylvanas held the gaze and nodded. “Send for me when you’re ready.” She paused then, and turned her wrist inwards until the tips of her fingers could brush against Jaina’s palm. “Don’t take long.” Then she spun on her heels and left.

Anduin continued staring at the space left between them, lips pursed. “The gardens, perhaps?”

“Lead the way.”

\-------

They ventured into a quiet little side garden a few halls down from the war room. Secluded enough away from the main corridors for privacy, though Jaina warded the space regardless. As soon as they were alone, Anduin turned to her with a smile brightening his boyish face. He opened his arms and she welcomed his embrace, smiling wistfully.

“It’s really good to see you, Jaina,” he said when they pulled apart. His hands squeezed her arms, and she became aware of how much he’d grown since she saw him last. No longer a Boy-King; not really. A man now. She looked at him and saw Varian in his eyes, his smile. “I’ve missed you.”

She laughed quietly. “You saw me a few months ago!”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t miss my aunt,” he insisted, grinning playfully, and in his face Jaina saw so much of Varian. He sobered then, rather quickly. “Shall we sit?” He gestured to a bench nestled under the languidly bubbling fountain.

Jaina nodded and they sat. Conversation began with idle things first; chatter about Stormwind, about Genn’s ongoing pursuit of getting Anduin to settle down with a nice young girl and start a family. She smiled and teased him gently when, warmth blooming in her chest at the blush that rose up into his cheeks.

“It’s not as easy as he says,” he grumbled, scrubbing a hand over the faint peach fuzz that still seemed too shy to blossom over his cheeks. “It’s not like I can just command any woman I like to marry me.”

“No,” she said patiently. “But maybe talking to the women you like would be a good start.”

Anduin wrinkled his nose mildly. “It’s not as if I’ve had a lot of time to really be looking at women, let alone to think about marrying them. Sometimes I think marriage is ten times more terrifying than war.”

Jaina chuckled. “It’s really not as bad as you think,” she said, patting his arm soothingly.

The boy — Tides, he wasn’t really a _ boy _ anymore, was he? Hadn’t been in a long while — peered at her discerningly, tilting his head as his bright eyes seemed to search for something in her face. “What is it _ really _ like, then?” he asked carefully, sliding a hand over to grasp Jaina’s. “Being married...more specifically being married to _ Sylvanas _.”

Peering at him flatly, Jaina said, “Why? Are you planning on asking for her hand as well? Polygamy’s allowed in elven culture, but I don’t remember if our laws quite adhere to theirs.”

“Of course not!” Anduin sputtered, the tips of his ears burning red. “I would _ never _—”

“Besides, I don’t think you’re Sylvanas’ type,” she continued casually, grinning at him from the corner of her mouth. “Never mind the age difference.”

Anduin groaned, long and tortured as he buried his face in his hands. “_Jaina_.”

She grinned. “What did you expect from a question like that?”

“I certainly didn’t expect _ that_,” he mumbled, visibly shuddering.

Jaina pursed her lips, brows furrowing as she quelled the sudden and inexplicable irritation that welled in her stomach. “It’s been almost four years, Anduin,” she said mildly. “I would’ve thought that you and Genn would come to terms with it by now.”

Anduin blinked. “With what?”

“The fact that this marriage is here to stay.” She gave him a stern, knowing look, and felt a stir of disappointment in her chest when Anduin looked away guiltily.

Sighing, he said, “We just worry for you, Jaina. I can’t imagine being married to Sylvanas has been easy.”

She sighed the same, deeply and wearily. “Marriage isn’t meant to be easy; it’s about compromise. If you wanted to speak to me just to ask about this again —”

“I just wanted to be sure you were making these choices by your own free will,” he said placatingly. “Being married to her is one thing, but sharing a bed…?”

“We won’t be sharing a bed,” Jaina replied testily. “And even if we were, it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but ours.”

Anduin leaned back, raising his hands peaceably. “A chamber, then. That’s just across the hall from one another.”

Jaina made a disgruntled noise. “We’ve fought a war together. She was at my back and my side for months. What do you think is going to happen? That she’s going to force her way into my room and —” She shook her head incredulously, surging to her feet. “Anduin, please. This is getting out of hand.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Anduin cried, waving a hand between them, as if to physically waft the very thought aside. “No, I meant — I just meant if you were _ safe_! After what happened! We still don’t know —”

“Yes, we do,” she cut in brusquely. “We know exactly who did it, and why.”

Anduin’s teeth met in an audible click and his jaw clenched as he looked away. There was no denying it; no skirting around the fact anymore. For however much that they wished it otherwise, most of the dissent was coming from fractures within the Alliance. There were still those within the Horde that doubted the intentions of the Alliance (and their Warchief), but most were simply relieved at the thought of ending the bloodshed. 

Jaina wished she could say the same for their human counterparts.

“Be that as it may,” Anduin began slowly. “Be that as it may, I just worry. Sylvanas doesn’t have the best history with keeping her word.”

She puffed out an impatient breath. “Well, neither have we, but I don’t see Sylvanas or anyone else from the Horde reminding me of the fact every time we speak.” She glanced away, beyond the walls of the garden; beyond the Keep and towards the barest glimpse of the North Tower over yonder.

On a weary breath, she asked, “Is that all you wanted to discuss? I’ve spent most of the day in meetings already; I’d very much like this to be done.”

When Anduin said nothing else, Jaina turned on her heels and made her way towards the entrance of the garden. It was then that his voice carried along the breeze, quiet and mumbled. 

“I’m only concerned,” he murmured. “We never expected you to have gotten so..._close_.”

Jaina did not turn back to him. She was quiet for a long moment instead, staring off at the distant wall of the hallway. “She’s my wife,” she said faintly. “What did you expect?”

\-------

Sylvanas was already waiting for her at the library. Sprawled on the chaise, languid and long in the filtered sunlight. She had a book braced open in one hand and the other pillowed beneath her head as red eyes skimmed idly along each passage. She took a moment to finish whatever it was she was reading before her eyes slid up to Jaina, ear flicking slightly as she sat up. “Ah. There you are. That was quite a lengthy conversation with the Boy-King.”

“Yes,” Jaina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather not discuss it any further.”

“Of course.” Smirking, Sylvanas inclined her head, sitting upright and patting the space beside her. “Come. I’ve found the most fascinating grimoire.”

Jaina hesitated a moment. They had shared the chaise before; each time they read together. Pressed thigh-to-thigh and almost shoulder-to-shoulder, passing the book between each other as they compared notes on Thalassian history or grimoires of older times. It was nothing strange. Not after she’d fallen asleep on Sylvanas that first time.

And yet.

There was a knowing look in Sylvanas’ eyes. “I don’t bite, Proudmoore.” She grinned widely, and Jaina looked away at the flash of pointed fangs. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Jaina rolled her eyes. “Or if I’m being poisoned, apparently,” she muttered, moving to place herself on the chaise primly. “I still don’t understand the significance of that, you know. Last I heard, banshees didn’t bite their prey. Or wives.”

“Because you weren’t _ prey_,” Sylvanas replied flatly. “And there are many things about my powers that you do not know, wife.”

Despite herself, her eyes dropped down to Sylvanas’ mouth and lingered there for an instant. “Do they all involve blood and teeth, then?”

The banshee didn’t reply immediately. Instead she peered at Jaina with a thoughtful look before shrugging. “Banshee powers are..._tactile_. You were choking on your own tongue. I had to get the tainted blood out of you somehow.”

Jaina sighed. “I suppose it was better than slitting my throat and letting me bleed out.”

“I would do it again if I had to,” Sylvanas said grimly. “But I’d prefer there not to be a repeat of that night.”

Clearing her throat, Jaina jerked her chin at the book in her wife’s hand. “Which grimoire is this, then?”

Sylvanas turned the cover over for her to see. “_The Makings of an Omni-Opening Grimoire_,” she read aloud, flipping the book open to where her thumb had marked its place. “Apparently it’s a fascinating little scribble about the Defensive Regulatory Magicon.”

Jaina blinked incredulously, reaching out to tilt the book towards her for closer read. Her eyes skimmed rapidly over the words, nudging Sylvanas’ thumb away with her own. “This isn’t just ‘a fascinating little scribble’; this is an entire tome about creating and destroying the DRM.” She turned her disbelieving eyes onto her wife. “Why would you want a DRM?”

Arching a brow, Sylvanas drawled, “Whyever, indeed.”

“Sylvanas,” she said then, rather sharply. “You can’t seriously be thinking about implementing the DRM on the Keep?”

“Not the Keep. I was thinking the Tower, but since we’ve agreed to move into the Great Keep…” The Banshee Queen shrugged. “Yes. The Keep.”

Jaina scoffed. “Absolutely not.” She slid her hand away from the book and made to rise from the chaise.

The book slid shut with a quiet thud, and Jaina felt the air behind her shift as Sylvanas rose seamlessly after her. The thought rankled at her viciously — first Anduin and Genn, and now this? She had already wasted the larger part of the afternoon listening to their insipid argument, listening to Anduin skirt around the fact that she and Sylvanas were becoming far closer than any of them had expected her to. What did they expect? They were married! 

Was she meant to spend the rest of her life resenting her marriage and hating Sylvanas? It wasn’t as if the Alliance were innocent of making questionable decisions about their loyalties through the years. Some of those choices had been by Jaina’s own hand, and she wasn’t inclined to forget their consequences.

The audacity of them — to suggest that their growing familiarity with one another had somehow clouded her judgement. To suggest that an archmage as mighty as the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras couldn’t defend herself against threat.

And now this. From her own wife, no less.

“I’m getting tired of everyone treating me like I’m some sort of fragile china doll,” she spat, casting a withering look at Sylvanas over her shoulder. “Have you already forgotten that _ I _was the one that saved your sorry behind while we were fighting Azshara? And then teleported us back to the Keep without having to bargain with your last val’kyr to keep your idiotic soul in place while we healed you?”

A large, encompassing hand reached out and grasped her elbow just firmly enough to keep Jaina in place. Sylvanas loomed close, blood-red eyes boring deep into her blazing blue ones with such intensity she could feel the heat of them on her cheeks.

“Rest assured, wife,” Sylvanas murmured, and the low grate of her words made a low shiver run along Jaina’s spine. “That is a fact I have not forgotten.” Her grip loosened slightly then, until it fell away to the barest whisper of her fingertips against skin. “But as it stands, your safety is now my utmost priority.”

She hesitated for an instant — only an instant, but Jaina was starting to realise that those were instances that were becoming all too noticeable. She slid her hand away then, with what seemed like great reluctance. “If for nothing else, then at the very least for the debt that is owed.”

Jaina blinked. “Debt?” She repeated, and the anger that flared in her chest burned into her cheeks. “_Debt? _ ” She stepped into Sylvanas’ space, thrusting out her chin in a defiant rush. “Is that what this is? You’re settling a _debt?”_

Sylvanas reeled back, blinking rapidly. “Jaina —”

“Here I thought we were actually being adults about this whole thing,” she said, shaking her head with an incredulous laugh. “That we were actually —” She swallowed back her words, felt them clinging to her throat like the hemlock and wine.

Sylvanas reached out again, but Jaina jerked out of her reach. She frowned deeply, ears flattened back against her skull, but she did not push. “That’s not what I meant,” she insisted. “You saved my life. I thought I owed you a debt for even thinking about making the effort. You could have easily left me to the Void; a fact that Greymane no doubt laments to this day.” 

“And yet you still think of it as a _ debt_. One life for another, is that it? I saved yours so you save mine, and now we’re even?”

“Stop twisting my words,” Sylvanas sighed. “Have Greymane and King Wrynn set your mind to such unease? I’m not your enemy, Proudmoore. Had I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have waited through four years of marriage to kill you.” She paused, then added, “Despite what that overgrown dog says.”

Jaina pursed her lips sourly. “I’m not so easily swayed by malicious whispers, Warchief. Maybe I’m just tired of people treating me like I have no mind of my own,” she hissed.

Sylvanas stepped back then, folding her arms officiously behind her back. Straightening her posture, she regarded Jaina impassively as she asked, “What, then, troubles your mind now, wife?”

She frowned hard. There was a great number of things troubling her, certainly; each clamouring over the other to form into a cohesive thought. There were too many to think of, there was too much to say. Where would she even start? Sucking in a heavy breath, Jaina said, “I don’t need a damned DRM on the Keep. I don’t need it, and I don’t _ want _it.”

The Warchief peered at her for a moment, then nodded. “As you wish.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She frowned then, suspiciously. “Just like that?”

At length, Sylvanas let out a sigh. “The point of a DRM was undoubtedly to assure myself of your safety. To assure everyone of your safety. But I understand why the very thought upsets you, and I would not insult you to insinuate that you were in any way incapable of protecting yourself.”

“So why even suggest it? If you knew it would upset me?” Jaina pressed.

Sylvanas sighed. “I do not like leaving your survival to chance, Proudmoore. Once was enough.”

It was, by far, the closest any assassination attempt had come to successfully ending her life. Every other attempt had been physical; people rushing forward through crowds or creeping through windows to slit her throat in her sleep. Those had been dealt with by her dark rangers or Sylvanas herself — with cold-blooded efficiency. She was, frankly, amazed that this was the first time anyone had considered poisoning her food. 

What amazed her even more was the fact that they had gotten complacent enough for it to come _ so close_.

Still, Jaina said, “I worry about you the same, but you don’t see me placing tracker spells to keep tabs on you at all times.”

“The DRM doesn’t track you, it —”

“Yes, yes, I know what the DRM does,” she cut in testily, giving Sylvanas a narrow-eyed look. “My point still stands.”

Sylvanas huffed, turning her head to stare blankly at the bookshelves lined along the wall. Jaina could not see her hands, but knew the sound of her fingers tapping against her forearm. An ear swivelled and flicked intermittently; a habitual trait that belied her agitation.

Finally, Sylvanas turned her gaze back onto Jaina. “A compromise,” she offered, pulling her left hand into view and thumbing the band that sat on her ring finger. “We use runes. On your ring and mine. If our vital signs waver for any reason, we will know.”

Jaina eyed her ring and then looked down at her own. She twisted it on her finger slowly, chewing on the edge of her lip; worrying them both. It would be a painfully intimate thing. Knowing each other’s hearts, in the most literal sense of the word. She was sure there would be other ways to address the lapse of security; just like all the other times people had tried to kill her. Somehow, she couldn’t quite find any other alternative to suggest.

“Well?” Sylvanas pressed gently, cocking her head. With a teasing lilt in her voice, she said, “What say you, wife? Will you put your heart in my hand?”

A rush of heat coiled in her belly so quickly it left her swooning for an instant. She blinked, hard, and then scowled at Sylvanas. “I hope you don’t mean that literally. I don’t expect to be left holding my wife’s literal heart in my hands for one spell or another.”

“Isn’t it lucky that my heart already does not beat,” Sylvanas drawled mirthlessly. “Though I wonder the effectiveness of the runes if my vital organs are..._compromised_, I suppose.”

Jaina frowned. She knew that the Warchief ate and drank, and no doubt an Undead body processed that somehow. She knew all too well that Sylvanas bled. It was not an experience she wanted to repeat.

“What will you put in mine, then, if your heart doesn’t beat?” she asked.

Sylvanas paused, a thoughtful hum in her throat. “My soul, I suppose.” Her pretty mouth twisted into a wry smile then. “Though I imagine that to you, it holds just as little value as my heart.”

She inhaled sharply, brows furrowing. “Don’t twist _ my _words, either,” she said reproachfully. “If you want something to keep me safe, then it’s only fair that we do it as equals. Your life is just as important as mine, and I won’t hear another word of it if we’re not doing this together.”

“Was I not the one that suggested the alternative?” Sylvanas asked mildly.

True. Sighing, Jaina thrust out her chin and gave Sylvanas a begrudging nod. “We should look through the grimoires to see if there are protection runes that can work instead.”

“Don’t you mages keep all your spells and runes in your head, ready to cast?”

Jaina rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a grimoire to you?”

She watched then, as the Warchief gave her a very deliberate onceover. Another spark of heat tingled in her belly, but Jaina swallowed it down with an impatient arch of an eyebrow.

“Well, now that you mention it — you are rather square in the shoulders.”

She swatted Sylvanas on the arm without thought; as if it was reflex by that point. In the back of her mind, she realised that it was, in fact, reflex now. They teased and ribbed one another with an ease that seemed all too natural. 

Though she supposed it was no different than the barbs and pithy one-liners they traded in the first three years of their marriage. 

Sylvanas, for her part, took it all in stride. “Square shoulders are something to be proud of,” she remarked. “They mark the form of a truly impressive warrior.”

“I’m not a warrior, I’m a mage.”

She shrugged. “Six of one is half-dozen of the other. A mage is a still a warrior, albeit one best suited for long-range battles.”

Jaina rolled her eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me that a forest troll is no different to a kaldorei.”

“Fundamentally, they remain creatures of the earth, do they not?” Sylvanas tilted her head with an amused smirk. “And you really need to learn to take a compliment, Proudmoore.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “Tides, you infuriate me sometimes!” Her lips curled into a smile despite herself. “Sometimes I want to just —”

“Just what?”

Jaina made an ungraceful noise and shook her head incredulously. “Nothing, never mind. Let’s get this over with before I give in to the temptation of freezing that stupid smirk off your face.”

\------

The following week was filled with movement — namely, moving. Amidst their regular chaos of governing the kingdom and receiving audiences, they moved from their respective towers in stages. Jaina had offered to move everything for them; really, all it would take was a bit of time and effort on her end, but Sylvanas had staunchly refused.

“As powerful as you are, wife, and no doubt with endless flow of magic — I also know the toll that casting has on a mage. Especially with a spell as complex as this. No, the traditional way will be enough.”

Jaina curled her lip irritably. “Are you suddenly an expert in magic now, Warchief?”

From her desk piled high with reports, nestled within a private chamber in the war room, Sylvanas peered at her mildly and shrugged. “I’m merely expressing a thought. And besides — moving in stages allows me to oversee the progress of the renovations.”

The fireplaces in both their rooms and the shared living room were all in dire need of refurbishing, that was true. One had blockages of collapsed stone in the chimneys, another charred and blacker than night. Window panes needed mending and wooden doors were splintered and warped from disuse and age. Jaina’s room was frigid in the night from cracks in the stone between the window panes and Sylvanas’ adjoining study had little in the way of ventilation.

“You know I could also just fix all of those things, don’t you?” she said, leaning a hand on the edge of the table.

“And deprive our people of income?” Sylvanas replied, scribbling something in an elegant scrawl between the margins of her ledger. “Carpenters, stonemasons, blacksmiths? Magic is truly a wealth of power that we already abuse to ease everyday trivialities, but even such power has limits.” She paused her writing and lifted her gaze up to Jaina. “Some things require the labours of skilled craftsmen.”

Jaina rapped her knuckles against the polished wood of the desk, painfully aware of the weight of her wedding ring on its perch of her finger. “I can still ease the way. Remove the need for backbreaking labour and risk of injury. I can remove the stones in the chimney and fix your study —”

“My study does not need fixing.”

“I walk into that room and I choke on my own breath, Sylvanas. The windows look like they’ve been sealed shut for decades,” she insisted.

Sylvanas’ brow twitched idly as she continued scribbling — costs and invoices for the renovations, from what Jaina could see. “I have no need for fresh air in my lungs. What does it matter how stifling my rooms are?”

Pursing her lips and glaring hard at her wife, Jaina murmured, “_I care_.”

The repetitive scratch of quill-on-parchment halted very abruptly and Sylvanas’ eyes flashed up at her.

“We said we’d do this as equals. What is equal about my rooms being renovated for my comfort and not yours?”

“Your comfort is also a necessity as a living being,” Sylvanas reminded her, not unkindly. She turned a page with a flick, the parchment scraping noisily against itself. The scratching sound continued once more.

Jaina sighed and shook her head. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“I just don’t see the need to argue about something so petty.”

She rounded the desk and perched a hip on the edge of it, reaching out to still Sylvanas’ writing hand. The skin beneath her fingers was cool to the touch and brimming with the same sort of arcane energy she’d felt on the night of the poisoning, and she suppressed a shiver at the memory.

Sylvanas stared at her hand, and then blood-red eyes trailed up the length of her arm, settling finally on her face.

Jaina swallowed and stared back defiantly. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped making my concerns into something so trivial.”

“It’s not trivial, merely unnecessary.” Sylvanas eyed her grip pointedly. “If you don’t mind —”

“I do mind, in fact,” she said tersely. “And I’m going to do something about it.”

Sighing, the Warchief lowered her quill just long enough to slip her wrist from Jaina’s grip. “Fine,” she bit out begrudgingly. “Have them adjust the room as you like.”

Jaina huffed triumphantly. “Thank you.” She slid her hand away and ignored the tingle it left in her fingertips. “Although for the record, I would’ve done it with or without your permission.”

“I am aware,” Sylvanas grumbled.

Smiling again, she slid away from the desk and left the war room. It might’ve been a trivial thing to Sylvanas...or to any Undead, for that matter, but Jaina knew the simple pleasures her wife took from something like a fresh breeze and sunlight. She made her way briskly towards the Great Chamber, glancing sharply at Alina as the dark ranger materialised at her elbow.

“I’m not fussing too much, am I? It’s her room, but I just want it to be evenly matched,” she said, frowning.

Alina shrugged. “The Dark Lady is stubborn...but deserving of comfort.”

Jaina smiled slightly, if a little sadly. “She does.”

The Great Chamber was separated by a shared living space; a large and airy room currently filled with carpenters and stonemasons. All of the furniture had been draped in large sheets or stored away elsewhere for safekeeping, and Jaina knew she would find the same in both bedrooms. She stepped into the chamber and turned left, nodding politely to those who bowed or acknowledged her presence. She moved past the living room and into Sylvanas’ bedchamber, ducking away quickly to the sequestered doorway of the Warchief’s study.

The door was open, and in the middle of the barren room, Jaina saw an orc woman standing arms akimbo, staring hard at the very windows she’d come to address. She cleared her throat quietly.

The orc woman turned in surprise, blinking for a moment then bowing slightly at the hip. “Lord Admiral Proudmoore.”

“Hello, Te’sha,” she said warmly. “You know I prefer being called Lady Jaina. I just wanted to ask how the progress was coming along with my wife’s study.” She knew the orc woman well; Sylvanas trusted no one else to forge her daggers and shape her arrows. The blacksmithing Te’sha did for them during the war was rivalled by none. “Tell me what you were frowning so hard at.”

Te’sha grunted and gestured towards the windows, the muscles in her outstretched arm flexing and bulging with the movement. As she spoke, the hoop ring embedded in her lower tusk flashed in the light. “The masons needed a measure for new iron and steel on the window panes and trusses. I can’t get the damned things open; it’s been rusted through from who knows how long.”

Jaina pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t imagine brute force helps at this point?” Te’sha was brawny; there was no lack of strength at hand for it.

The blacksmith shook her head slowly, the thick rope of her braid brushing across her shoulders. “Not without damaging the stonework around it, and it’ll take too long to renovate the masonry if I do.”

Stepping forward and closer to the windows, Jaina laid a hand on Te’sha’s arm. “Let me try,” she said. She motioned for the blacksmith to step back and peered at the damage keenly. With a low murmur of an incantation under her breath, her fingers took on a faint glow. She traced them carefully over the outline of the pane, brows furrowing with concentration. The pane sizzled and sparked, taking on a bright shade of ember until its frame was encased in what looked like molten steel.

Jaina stepped back with a ragged exhale, steadying herself for a moment. On her next breath, she blew out a breeze of frost, clinging only to the ember. With a loud groan and snap, the window panes gave a shudder, dying off into a grating creak.

“There,” she said, with a breathless smile, turning to Te’sha. “Try moving it now.”

Te’sha moved, grasping the window frame firmly. She gave it a careful tug, crying out in surprise when the whole thing came away in her hand without effort. A rush of breeze came into the room with a faint howl, rustling over their clothes and lifting dust and sand.

Jaina took in a deep breath and found it crisp. Clean. Fresh. With weariness but triumph in her voice, she said, “If you need any further help, Te’sha, don’t hesitate to ask. And belay whatever command the Warchief gives you about the renovations if they’re not on par with what you’re doing to my room. If it’s broken, please fix it.”

“Of course, my lady,” Te’sha chuckled, staring at her with warm respect. “The Warchief is lucky to have you for a wife.”

A warm flush rose into Jaina’s neck and bloomed in her cheeks. “It’s just a small matter,” she said. “We — I want things to be done as equals, that’s all.”

“Still lucky.”

She felt the heat rise giddily into her head, and it frightened her. “Only as lucky as I am,” she murmured. “Only as lucky.”

\------

Jaina woke one night with a scream burning in her throat and her skin cold with sweat. She fought the stifling tangle of sheets around her legs, panic gripping tight still to her spine as she gasped and heaved for a calming breath. A burst of power shot from her hand, shards of ice that finally unravelled them into a crumpled, frozen pile at the end of the bed. She scrambled back against the headboard and stared wildly around the room as she finally felt the vice in her throat ease.

No one but the quiet swaying breeze through the curtains.

Trembling hands uncurled from their grip on the pillows. She looked down at them and saw them clean; pale and clammy, her palms carved deep with grooves from her nails — but clean.

No blood.

No ichor.

She exhaled, and the sound shuddered in her chest. It wasn’t uncommon. It wasn’t unexpected to wake in such a state — not after everything she’d done and been through. Nightmares and terrors were something that accompanied her rest for far longer than she could remember. Perhaps, if she cared to think of it, would explain her general dislike for spending many of her hours asleep. She survived a lifetime of war, and somehow the thought of being alone with her thoughts frightened her more than anything ever could.

The cool air of the room prickled uncomfortably against the sweat-damp hair gathered at the nape of her neck. Jaina swept a hand wearily over her face, pressing the pads of her fingers hard over the saltwater-swell of her eyelids. Her head swam still, a dissonant haze of consciousness and detachment. Like a ship untethered and swaying on billowing waves; adrift and at the mercy of any passing storm.

No matter how many times she dreamt of it, it was always too real.

She moved without thought, stumbling against the cold of the stones beneath her feet. The cold of the doors against her hands as she pushed them open. It should have stung, the chill of them, but Jaina felt nothing more than a dull prod to her senses.

A shadowy figure formed in the periphery of her vision and Jaina startled violently.

Alina stepped back, lifting her hands in a peaceable gesture. “My Lady,” she said, low and gentle. “Are you alright?” The amber gleam of her eyes pierced the dark with feline precision, too bright and keen.

She blinked and saw blood-red eyes staring at her in the darkness, wide and unseeing. Unsettled, Jaina looked away quickly, swallowing back the taste of bile in her throat. She did not trust herself to speak, so she didn’t.

She walked with no direction in mind, only knew that her feet were moving and the cold air of the twilight hours was filling the tightening space of her lungs. She walked and walked and walked —

And then she stopped.

The tower loomed overhead; a mass of blackness in the dim light of torches. She stared up into its stones, up into its tallest windows and saw a faint, flickering cast of firelight. She moved once more without much thought, without care for the keen and probing gaze of Kalira or the quiet movements of Alina behind her. She climbed each step, one at a time, then two at once.

Then she was running.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, heaving and swaying, ears ringing as she braced herself against the cold stones. Breathless and vision swimming, Jaina looked and saw the door to the study ajar, light spilling out into the hallway from within.

She swallowed and staggered towards it. Pushed the door open wider with a trembling hand.

From a desk scattered in parchment, Sylvanas looked up in surprise. “Jaina…?”

“I — I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t — know why I came here.”

Sylvanas stared for a moment, and the confused furrow in her brow softened with a sort of understanding. She rose from her seat and moved slowly, reaching out a tentative hand. “Is everything alright?” she murmured, and when her fingers brushed against Jaina’s arm, it felt like a spark from a living storm. 

Jaina shook her head abruptly, swallowing back the sob that throttled in her chest. “I — it was just a dream. I shouldn’t have —”

Sylvanas came forward slowly and wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders. “You’re freezing cold,” the Warchief murmured, almost chiding.

“I didn’t realise,” she mumbled, sagging wearily against the familiar smell of cold steel and flowers. She reached up and clung to the material of Sylvanas’ tunic, felt it warm and buttery beneath her fingers. Real. Solid.

Alive.

A throat cleared at the doorway and Sylvanas raised a hand in reassurance. “I have her, Alina. You may go.” She wrapped her arm firmer around Jaina, stroking her hand along the length of a cold arm.

“I’m sorry,” Jaina said again, and she was sure her nails would leave divots into the leather. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”

“It’s alright,” Sylvanas said softly. “I understand the terrors that come when you sleep. Come, you may rest here.” She squeezed Jaina warmly and led them towards the bed.

Jaina allowed herself to be eased under the covers; colder than her own, but the deep burgundy of the sheets was a comfort. She curled up deeply into them, pressed her face into pillows that smelled like Sylvanas and felt the restless ache in her chest settle.

Sylvanas pulled the covers up and made to step away, but Jaina reached out in a rush, clinging to her wrist.

“Will you —?” She flushed hot then, filled with a warring combination of shame and anxiety. She flexed her grip on Sylvanas’ wrist and peered up into her wife’s face guiltily.

The banshee met her gaze with an unreadable one. Unreadable, but not unkind. “As you wish.”

When Jaina released her, Sylvanas moved quickly towards her desk, extinguishing candles and lanterns as the room became swathed in darkness.

“Please leave one on,” Jaina blurted, huddling into the sheets as her eyes adjusted into the gloom to make out the shape of Sylvanas moving about the bed.

Sylvanas froze for an instant. “Of course,” she replied, nearly apologetic as she moved towards the bedside table. There, she lit the lantern perched on its edge, and in the throw of light, Jaina could see the silhouette of her profile, pensive and still.

As Sylvanas laid back against the pillows, Jaina found herself shuffling in closer to her wife. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and placed it carefully against the jut of a rib. The muscles beneath her fingers stiffened slightly, but there were no words between them as she inched her way closer still.

Her lips brushed the barest edge of Sylvanas’ shoulder as she spoke. “Thank you.”

Without a word, Jaina found herself pulled into Sylvanas’ side, a steadying arm around her shoulders. She turned her head to stare up into her wife’s face, an apology once more building in her throat, but she looked and saw the flickering gaze of blood-red eyes peering down at her expectantly.

Jaina said nothing. She curled against Sylvanas and wrapped her arms around the banshee tight. Drained of thought and strength, she succumbed to sleep with the faint thrum of an Undead heart beating beneath her ear and the gentle touch of fingers in her hair.

\--------

Jaina rose sluggishly in the morning, clutching tight against the figure pressed against her. A low, constant noise rumbled against her cheek and ear, and she nuzzled deeper into the noise. Sunlight flickered and spilt across the bed, thrown from a window that had no business being open, and Jaina eventually forced herself to open her eyes.

She blinked sleepily as the room swam back into focus, and roused far quicker when a hand reached up to brush the hair from her face.

“Good morning,” Sylvanas said quietly.

Jaina ducked her head back down, her hair falling back over her face as she pressed it against Sylvanas’ chest. “I thought it was all a dream,” she mumbled. “I can’t believe I actually came here.”

The chest she was laying on reverberated with a chuckle. “I did not mind it,” Sylvanas told her, twisting the ends of her mane of hair around a finger. “How are you feeling, wife?”

Jaina did not answer at first, pushing upright to squint out at the dancing sunlight. Her cheek was warm and marked from the press of the tunic against her skin, and she reached up to palm at it thoughtfully. “What time is it?” she croaked.

“Thereabouts midday.”

“Midday?” She straightened up abruptly, staring at Sylvanas with disbelief. “We have meetings! Audiences! We were supposed to talk with Gallywix about the new trade taxes!”

Sylvanas pushed herself up onto her elbows but remained otherwise unfazed. “I took care of it,” she said. “Your meetings have been rescheduled.”

Jaina blinked and stared.

“I understand that I did so without consulting you, but that would’ve defeated the purpose of leaving you to sleep. And I knew you’d likely wake and go about your duties despite the troubled night.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvanas quelled it with a hard, knowing look. The building indignation in her fizzled away slowly, and her shoulders sagged with defeat. “Thank you, I guess.” She sighed, brushing back her unruly hair with an impatient hand.

“If it helps,” Sylvanas said then, rather flippantly. “I rescheduled mine as well.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sylvanas shrugged. “You needed the rest. I imagine your dream was a particularly unpleasant one. I thought you might prefer..._proximity _ for comfort.”

A faint stir of warmth in her belly made Jaina look away. She pursed her lips and worried the edge of covers between her fingers. It was, in fact, a dream she’d had several times before. She didn’t like thinking about the memory of holding Sylvanas in her arms, the smell of ichor and blood, the blinding tears in her eyes as she watched her wife fade from existence right in front of her.

A cool touch brushed along the back of her hand and she startled slightly. 

“If you prefer time alone —”

“No!” The force of her response surprised even herself as she reached out and clutched tightly to Sylvanas’ hand. “No, I —” She blushed again, staring hard at their joined hands; the weight of wedding ring on her fingers. Clearing her throat, she said slowly, “I would really appreciate the company.”

She looked up then, and caught the barest curve of a smile forming on Sylvanas’ lips.

“I’ll have Alina bring us some breakfast then.”

“And coffee?”

“Only the best.”


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina continues to be very gay

IV

\----------

They ate on the balcony of Sylvanas’ rooms. It became clear to Jaina quickly enough that there was nowhere else to sit but the wicker chaise she’d last seen her wife lounging in, now neatly draped in comfortable cushions. The plushness of the pillows left them precious little room to manoeuvre between the two of them, and so they sat, thighs just barely brushing. She looked at the chaise and then at Sylvanas.

A burning heat rose up into the column of her neck and festered in her cheeks. She caught Sylvanas’ eye for an instant and looked away quickly.

Sylvanas peered at her with a curious, discerning look, but did not press.

It was a pleasant breakfast, all things considered. As long as Jaina ignored the heat that bloomed in her belly whenever their hands brushed for the carafe or platter of fruits. Sylvanas served her coffee; black with sugar, but she couldn’t remember ever mentioning her preferences to her wife. She murmured her thanks and swallowed back her curiosity with a sip.

“So,” Sylvanas began, leaning slightly against the cushions. “Now that you’ve earned yourself a clear morning, what’ll you do with your leisure time, wife?”

Jaina smiled wryly from behind her mug. “The same thing I imagine you would.”

Sylvanas arched a brow.

“Reports.”

Jaina peered at her wife and saw Sylvanas staring at her with an expression that was both stunned and indignant. She opened her mouth to speak once more — perhaps to tease further, but the Warchief simply threw her head back slightly and chuckled.

The low echoing sound made Jaina flush faintly with pride. It thrilled her to no end — making Sylvanas laugh. It was such an unexpected sound, an unexpected levity that softened the harsh lines of the banshee’s face.

To know that she could elicit such a carefree sound from her wife stirred something in her belly that she couldn’t name. Wouldn’t name.

“You know me too well, wife,” Sylvanas said, and the fondness of her words made the warmth in Jaina’s cheeks intensify. “Perhaps I should add more variety to my habits.”

“It’s not a bad habit,” Jaina replied. “Just —”

“A predictable one?” the Warchief supplied, arching a brow knowingly at her.

Jaina shrugged and mumbled a non-committal reply behind her mug. Clearing her throat quickly, she placed the coffee down onto the table and look at Sylvanas seriously. “All jokes aside; I really am behind on paperwork.”

“Not so behind that you must sacrifice your day off to finishing them,” Sylvanas countered. She reached for another piece of bread, dipped in honeyed chickpeas and popped it into her mouth. The elegant line of her neck moved with each swallow.

Jaina put her mug to her lips again to avoid staring. “What did you have in mind, then?”

Sylvanas licked the tips of her fingers, and Jaina took another concerted mouthful of coffee. “I thought you might enjoy some time to catch up on your pleasure reading. Or perhaps a jaunt around the grounds or the fields beyond the Keep.”

It had been a while since they’d read together. The last Jaina had time to meet Sylvanas in the library had been before renovations began. She hated to think of how much she missed it, but the thought of spending time with her wife again made her heart race with something inexplicable.

Or perhaps it wasn’t so inexplicable at all. They were married for years; Sylvanas had been at her side through days and weeks and months of planning and executing their war campaign. There had been a time when she saw more of the Warchief than anyone from the Alliance. 

They learned to adapt to one another — to do more than simply tolerate each other.

“A ride together, perhaps?” Jaina suggested, peering at Sylvanas hopefully. “And then a book? I found a new poetry collection I’ve been meaning to read.”

Sylvanas gave her a thoughtful look. “That can be arranged,” she replied, reaching for the carafe to refill Jaina's mug. “I can have Alina send for your riding gear if you like. You may change and wash in my rooms if you prefer.”

The thought of being in any state of undress near Sylvanas (or perhaps, more so the opposite) made Jaina's cheek burn that much brighter. Nevertheless, she shrugged, feigning a casualness that she hardly felt. “I can change in my own chambers,” she said. “I'll have to pick up the poetry book anyway.”

Sylvanas inclined her head obligingly. “As you like it.” She leaned back once more, tapping her finger idly along the back of the chaise. “Shall we have the servants pack something light for the journey? We could make camp somewhere for a little while and...decompress.”

Before Jaina could reply, a dark ranger appeared in the doorway of the balcony.

Ears pricking forward, Sylvanas turned to address the ranger. “Kalira. News?”

“Apologies, Dark Lady, for interrupting,” Kalira rasped, bowing. Her glowing eyes darted to Jaina for a moment, a faint sparkle of something in the burning depths of them. “But the Trade Prince demands that he speak with you this morning.”

Sylvanas pursed her lips. “Bold of him to demand things of me. I distinctly remember commanding you to reschedule everything for tomorrow.”

“I did, my Queen,” Kalira replied. “But he remains…insistent that you speak to him about the latest adjustments to the trade taxes now.”

Jaina watched, with no small amount of interest, as Sylvanas’ brow arched slowly and her face smoothed into the imperious mask she wore in their usual day. “He can wait for the morning. And be sure he is the last meeting we attend to for that day.”

As amusing as it would have been to see Gallywix sputtering with all the indignation he could muster, Jaina shook her head with a sigh. “Don’t,” she said, and reached out to lay a hand on Sylvanas’ shoulder. “He’ll be insufferable the next time we talk about trade prices.”

Sylvanas huffed, ears flattening slightly. “He’s already insufferable now,” she grumbled, but relented with a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. But I shall see to him alone.” She reached out, and Jaina felt the cool touch of her palm encompassing the cap of a knee. “You carry on and enjoy your day off.” The frown on her lips was almost apologetic. “I might join you another time, perhaps.”

The stir of disappointment struck like a boulder in Jaina’s belly and its leaden weight lingered in her throat. She shook her head then, protest at the ready, but Sylvanas shook her head as well.

“Take some time to gather your thoughts,” she said, and Jaina felt her hand squeeze down gently. “The wars are over, wife. You’ve earned yourself a day to breathe — if not a decade.”

“I don’t suppose that applies to you, as well?” Jaina huffed.

The smile Sylvanas gave her was a droll thing, edged with the familiar twist of self-deprecation she came to recognise. “No rest for the wicked, as we know.” The hand on her knee squeezed once more, a lingering touch, before sliding away entirely.

Sylvanas rose smoothly to her feet. “I shall see you later in the day, then.” She inclined her head, but paused at the doorway for an instant. Bracing a hand along the wood, she glanced behind her shoulder then with a thoughtful look.

“If it pleases you,” she murmured, and the low thrum of her voice made Jaina sit up straighter. “Perhaps we should expedite the move to the Great Chambers.”

Jaina swallowed a breath and it caught in chambers of her throat. It came quickly; without thought, without hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I’d —” She nodded sharply. “I’d like that.”

Sylvanas smiled at her again, and it was a soft and warm thing. “As you wish. Good day, wife. I’ll find you tonight, perhaps. You can sleep here again, if you prefer. And we can read together.”

“Yes,” she said once more, with a smile that came unbidden. “Yes. I’d like that.”

\-------

With Sylvanas gone, there was precious little that motivated Jaina to wander out into the fields. She took her breakfast and washed, then wandered the halls and libraries like a restless bird in the height of summer. Flitting from one shelf to another, perusing pages of books that couldn’t keep her attention for more than a passage or two. She sat and finished a report or two, but found no incentive to continue.

Sighing, she pushed the parchments away and leaned back in her seat, tilting her head to where Alina was standing at her elbow.

“I don’t suppose Sylvanas is available yet,” she said.

Alina shrugged. “A walk might help, my Lady.”

Pushing upright, Jaina heaved another restless sigh. “I suppose anything’s better than staring at blank pages.”

They walked an idle path around the corridors; wandering from tower-to-tower and weaving among the flowers of the gardens. Some in full bloom still, relishing the waning heat of the summer sun. Others tightly bundled and idle in their quiet slumber, awaiting the graces of the moon and the kiss of winter. She walked the pathways of those flowers and lingered the most, fingertips brushing against the delicate buds that hid the richest shades of red until the coldest days of frost.

A quiet throat cleared behind her and Jaina looked up sharply.

Lor’themar bowed low at the hip, hands tucked fastidiously within his sleeves. “Your pardon, Lord Admiral. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He straightened up, glancing at Alina with a nod. “_Bal’a dash, annalas_.”

Alina bowed in return. “_Bal’a dash, Quel’Alar_.”

“Regent Lord,” Jaina echoed, nodding her head in greeting. “Have you come to look for me?”

“I was told by my Queen that I might find you at your desk or within the libraries,” Lor’themar replied, moving smoothly between the flowers. “I must admit that I was surprised to see you wandering the gardens so late in the summer.” 

“I thought I’d give my eyes some reprieve,” Jaina said. “I’m not looking forward to losing my eyesight so early.”

Lor’themar smiled wryly. “T’would be a pity that you weren’t one of the most powerful mages in all of Azeroth indeed.”

“Arcane magic doesn’t do well with healing something as delicate as eyes,” she told him. “I’d likely give myself an extra pair than fix the existing two.”

“I don’t recall Antonidas or Khadgar having such concerns. I’m certain you should have more faith in your powers than that,” Lor’themar chided her.

Jaina laughed quietly. “Sylvanas always says the same; are you sure you’re not spending too much time with her, Regent Lord?” she drawled, cocking her head slightly.

Lor’themar gave her a coy, discerning look. “Is that jealousy or envy in your voice I hear, Lord Admiral?” he teased.

Something stirred in her belly again, and Jaina quelled it with a sobering frown. She was grateful for Lor’themar’s intuitive nature in that moment; the Regent Lord cleared his throat once more and stood officiously before her. 

“I did come with a purpose,” he said.

“I thought as much. Something pressing, I imagine.”

“Nothing so urgent,” Lor’themar replied. “My party is venturing to Kul Tiras soon. The Dark Lady proposed that I ask if there was anything you might like brought home from Boralus? Perhaps a new stock of tea? Letters or notes to pass along to your mother?”

Jaina blinked. The mention of Kul Tiras — of her mother — made her keenly aware of the time that had passed since she last visited home. Too much had eaten into her time after the war; too many things clamouring over one another to be fixed and addressed. When was the last time she’d written to Katherine? Tandred?

She was so sure she’d written them. Brisk things, perhaps. Short little notes passed along asking about their health and sending her love, but letters nonetheless.

“I can return later, if you prefer,” Lor’themar offered kindly. “I won’t be leaving until the end of the week — you’ll have time yet to think on the things you desire, or letters you wish to write.”

“I might take you up on that,” Jaina said at length, peering at the Regent Lord thoughtfully. “But — would you mind if we walked a bit? There were some things I’d like to discuss with you as well, in the meantime.”

Lor’themar blinked in surprise, but agreed nevertheless. “I am at your service, Lord Admiral. Ask, and I shall answer to the best of my capabilities.”

They walked amidst the gentle light of the waning sun; the noise of bustling streets laden with carts and tradesmen. The distant smell of vendors with cooking food and smiths tooling their trades. She spoke of idle things first; progress with the rebuilding of Quel’Thalas. Ambassadorships of the sin’dorei between factions and booming trade between elven-troll ports and borders.

Conversation between them came most comfortably to Jaina than any other faction leader. Even (or perhaps especially) in comparison with Anduin and Genn.

It was likely his endless thirst for gossip that brought her own mother to mind. Fondly, of course.

Eventually, they came about to Kul Tiras once more, and Jaina gave him a coy sidelong look. “How is my mother adapting to retirement, anyway? I don’t imagine she’s been quite so easy to hold down in one place now that Tandred’s taken over as reigning Lord Admiral at home.”

The Regent Lord sniffed primly. “She’s adapting quite well overall,” he muttered. “Though enamoured with her grandson, the Lady Proudmoore is not a woman to be content with idle court gossip and sewing circles.”

“Mother always had a taste for adventure,” she said, grinning. “She had quite a knack for taming the wilder mounts we had in the stables. Something about a firm hand and faith in her riding crop.”

Lor’themar huffed, but did not rise to the bait. Jaina took her pleasures instead from the flush of colour blooming across his cheeks. He stopped abruptly, standing in the pathway as he turned his face up towards the distant tower with a pensive frown.

“...It’s getting close to supper,” he said, peering at her. “I don’t suppose the Dark Lady made her dinner plans clear for the night?”

Jaina lifted her head and stared the same, a thought festering along the edge of her consciousness. “Not yet,” she admitted. “But...before you go...I have a question the same, Regent Lord.”

Lor’themar turned to her curiously.

A phantom grip tightened around her throat and Jaina swallowed back the spectral touch. “Sylvanas...and her powers.” She frowned hard at her hands, curling them tightly into themselves to feel the pinch of her nails against her palms. “When she...healed? Me? That night, with the wine...how did she manage it?”

A flickering look of surprise passed Lor’themar’s features, followed rapidly by something like wariness and hesitation. Jaina wasn’t sure what she was expecting; to ask something that must have seemed so personal from anyone but Sylvanas. She would have asked the Banshee Queen herself if she didn’t know of the mercurial temper her wife held about such probing questions.

With Lor’themar, at the very least she knew that there would be some answers to parse from his words.

Wordlessly, she stood, shifting her feet against the grind of gravel under her shoes. Lor’themar continued to peer at her, as if she were an oddity; an undefined measure. 

At last, and at length, he spoke. “Banshees reduce their foes to husks by siphoning their life source...their souls. Sylvanas simply siphoned your blood. She returned it anew. It is her blessing and…” he paused thoughtfully. “...burden, I suppose. As the Dark Lady. To wield such power.”

“But _ how _did she return it anew?” Jaina pressed. “Healing isn’t a power I ever recall banshees possessing. She couldn’t have done it; not without the Light.”

Lor’themar made a faint grimace. “What she did to you isn’t something many would define as..._healing_. Especially not those of the Alliance. There are..._aspects _to her powers that remain unknown even to myself. The Dark Lady keeps her secrets closely guarded when she chooses.”

Jaina pressed her lips together. “Understatement of the year, that.” They shared a knowing if sad look. “But — I was so sure that she — that I felt her —”

Lor’themar peered at her encouragingly. The memory of that night came to her on a heady rush of wine and blood; a tightness in her throat and colour in her cheeks, but Jaina came away from the memory with a firm shake. “She felt...changed. Different. As if she’d —” She shrugged helplessly, because how did she define the touch of shoulders lined with ridges and feathers where there shouldn’t have been anything but flesh?

There was a faint, flickering look in the green of Lor’themar’s eye that made Jaina squint. “You know,” she accused him.

“I know many things,” Lor’themar replied glibly, brushing a speck of pollen from his sleeve primly. “You’ll need to be more specific if you wish an actual answer, my Lady.”

Jaina narrowed her eyes further and opened her mouth to speak. The distant toll of the clocktower in the square swallowed her words before she could make them.

Lor’themar turned his face towards the sound. “I suppose your question will have to wait,” he said, bowing low. “Your pardon, my Lady, but I have a previous engagement to keep.” He did not wait for an answer, as Jaina had none to give.

Instead, she watched him go with a frown, her brows furrowed deep. There was obviously something that had happened that night that went beyond the dramatics of an assassination. The tenuous relations between herself and Sylvanas those following days carried something more leaden than simple concern for her wellbeing. 

She glanced at Alina, searching the ranger’s face for an indication of..._something_, but there was nothing to be found there.

A throat cleared behind them, rather sharply, and Jaina turned in time to see Alina straightening to attention. She blinked in surprise. “Oh!”

Sylvanas arched a brow, a faint smile building in the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My meetings ran shorter than expected and I thought I’d find you for dinner.” She reached out and gave Alina’s shoulder a squeeze of dismissal.

“How did the meeting with Gallywix go?” Jaina asked. They drifted together without thought; Sylvanas offered an arm and she took it without hesitating.

“About as well as you’d expect,” Sylvanas said. They moved quietly through the garden, crossing at a languid pace between blood-red rhododendrons and bishop’s lace. Peering at Jaina sidelong, she said, “I see Lor’themar found you in the end.”

Jaina blinked. “Weren’t you the one who sent him after me?”

“I did. Though I didn’t expect you to take to the gardens.”

“So how did you know where to find me?” she asked, tilting her head to meet Sylvanas’ eyes.

Sylvanas smiled a feline smile. “Our rings were enchanted for a purpose, wife,” she teased, and Jaina looked away with a flush, squeezing tightly to her arm.

“I always forget how clever elven tongues are,” Jaina muttered, then very quickly pinched her wife on the arm. “_Don’t _even think about it.”

The answering chuckle was low and warm and settled deeply into her belly. “As you like it. I’ll curb my clever tongue.”

Jaina groaned and the chuckle became a laugh. They ate in Sylvanas’ rooms again; on the floor of her study with plush fur beneath them and a dancing fire in the hearth. There were meat pies and a hearty pottage that they ate with bread torn by their hands. Instead of wine, there was port — Kul Tiran and heady.

It sat like a slow-simmering fire in Jaina’s belly; warmer than the fire on her cheeks. Warmer than the glowing embers of her wife’s blood-red eyes. At times, in the flickering light of the fire, she thought she saw a flash of silver there. She could not say; she would not stare any more than she already was.

“So,” Sylvanas said, peering at her. “Did you manage to find your little poetry book?”

Jaina caught a fingertip between her lips and sucked away the lingering taste of pie from it before nodding. Her eyes caught Sylvanas’, and the low unreadable look she saw there made her flush. She looked away quickly and traced a shape in the air before her. A small portal shimmered into existence; she reached into it quickly and produced a book with a flourish.

Sylvanas grinned. “A clever trick.”

“Thank you, I think so too,” Jaina said primly. Clearing her throat dramatically, she found her marked page and began to read.

She read prose after prose, each punctuated by the drawling commentary of her wife. Coy and droll and well-timed as ever; and for however much Jaina liked to pretend otherwise, found herself smiling and laughing all the same. With an exasperated huff, she clapped the book shut and dropped it into her lap. Smiling still, she said, “Tides, you’re insufferable.”

“Thank you,” Sylvanas parroted smugly. “I think so too.”

Jaina laughed again. “Ridiculous.”

They sat and talked until the twilight swung low in a swath of velvet blue around them. Candles flickered and melted down; the fireplace sputtered and sparked weakly. The gentle fading heat of the room made Jaina yawn, shivering as she went.

Sylvanas rose wordlessly from the floor, pulling a log or two from the pile and feeding them into the fireplace. She stood for a moment, calm and still, and Jaina watched beneath the low droop of heavy lids as the fire illuminated the broad outline of her frame in shadows and flames.

Very quietly, so soft it was almost a struggle to hear her, Sylvanas said, “Would you like to retire to bed?”

Jaina inhaled sharply. It was an expected outcome; they’d talked about it at breakfast, but still the words spoken aloud made her belly tingle and warm. “If you don’t mind still,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “I don’t want to impose —”

Sylvanas turned her head. The growing flames of the fire caressed the curve of her cheek, the high and elegant arch of her nose. It was only an instant — just an instant in time — but Jaina thought there was a bright gleam of silver in her eyes.

It was a faint thing, but Jaina knew enough about Sylvanas to understand the slow curve of her lips. “Dear wife,” the banshee said, rather fondly. “We’ve been married for a time. Why would you ever be an imposition?”

Jaina looked away, cheeks warming in the growing heat of the room. “I need to change,” she mumbled.

“I will wait in my study, if you like.”

“That...would be appreciated.”

Sylvanas went and Jaina changed; hidden behind the ornate partitioning in the far end of the room. She was already perched on the side of the bed when the Warchief returned, dressed down for bed the same.

“You don’t need to sit with me if you prefer,” Jaina began, unravelling her braid carefully between her fingers. “I don’t know if you need to sleep like I do, but I don’t mind if you want to sit and finish your reports —” She looked up curiously when Sylvanas paused by the fireplace. 

“That,” Sylvanas said, and it came like a stutter in her throat. “That is quite a delicate-looking nightgown to sleep in.”

Jaina looked down at herself and pulled the covers higher. “I run hot in the summer nights,” she mumbled, flushing slightly.

“Understandable.” Sylvanas moved towards the other side of the bed. “If you wish, I can put out the fire —”

“It’s just fine,” Jaina said quickly, sliding deeper beneath the covers and laying her cheek onto the cool surface of the pillow. “I know you like the heat.”

A smirk curved the corner of the Warchief’s lips. “I have a feeling you’ll warm the bed just nicely, wife.”

“Tch.” She reached out and swatted Sylvanas on the shoulder. “Honestly, that rotten mouth of yours —”

“_Rotten_, is it? Have you forgotten whose bed you lie in, Proudmoore?”

“I am all too aware whose bed I’m lying in, _ Windrunner_, and now I’m wondering if it’s even worth it to be here.”

Sylvanas went quiet then, and Jaina’s heart raced at the thought of having gone much too far. To salvage their fading rapport, she snuggled down firmly into the bed and wriggled closer to her wife. Planting her head on the closest shoulder available, she mumbled, “Not another word.”

The tension slowly eased from the shoulder beneath her head, and Jaina heard Sylvanas make a little noise of amusement.

“Bold sweet thing,” she heard, as long fingers began to thread through her hair. “Whatever will I do with you?”

\--------

The renovations were completed across a span of a week or so. After the window panes, Sylvanas made it a point to be present as much as possible to oversee things...as did Jaina. They bickered and argued and fussed about one thing or another, often coming to terms with things only at the patient if exasperated intervention of their loyal subjects.

One evening, when their bedrooms were finally complete, Jaina said wryly, “I wonder if the runes were necessary after all. We’ve been practically glued to the hip since we started renovations.”

Sylvanas made an amused sound in her throat, carefully scrutinising the masonry of the living room fireplace. “You’ll have your own space soon enough, hopefully before you tire of my constant hovering.” She swept a hand along the mantlepiece, rubbing the tips of her fingers together thoughtfully. “You and I won’t be attached for very much longer.”

The thought made Jaina’s chest roil uncomfortably. “Of course not,” she murmured. “Of course.”

The Warchief peered at her thoughtfully, a long brow rising into an arch. “Was that not what you wanted?” Sylvanas asked slowly. “You were quite keen on moving into the Great Chamber.”

“It is,” Jaina insisted, turning away to pace restlessly along the windows, brushing her hand thoughtlessly along its pane. “It is. I suppose I just...adjusted to spending some nights in your tower.”

Sylvanas tilted her head slowly and smiled. “Isn’t it a good thing that we will be even closer now, then?”

Jaina smiled back, though it was a wan thing. “Of course.”

They inspected the bedrooms with a fastidious eye. The Warchief’s rooms were appropriately decorated with Horde and Forsaken motifs, rich burgundy-purple and red with undertones of silver and gold for her elven heritage. Her bed was plush and warm-looking; Sylvanas cast a knowing look at Jaina then, but the Lord Admiral feigned ignorance.

The renovations done on the vaulted ceilings pleased Sylvanas, and Jaina preened when she was pleasantly surprised at the new stained glass windows that opened out onto the main courtyard.

“Te’sha mentioned that you helped her with these,” Sylvanas remarked, brushing a hand along the finely-tooled panes. “She also mentioned how lucky I was to have such a dedicated wife.”

Jaina’s cheeks flared brightly and she caught the little teasing look on Sylvanas’ face before she looked away with a huff. “If you’re always going to tease me about caring then I might have to reconsider my kindness.”

“I can’t help if it’s so easy to fluster you,” Sylvanas replied unrepentantly, grinning. “You always turn such a flattering shade of pink.”

Jaina turned away with a sputter of indignation, but Sylvanas merely laughed.

“Alright, alright,” Sylvanas said and strode smoothly across the room towards the door. “I shall spare you the mortification.” The cool touch of calloused fingertips settled against Jaina’s arm, squeezing gently at her elbow. “Come, we still have your rooms to look at before bed.”

Her own room was as she expected it to be. It came with the territory as the ones overseeing its renovations. Her new space was accented in rich shades of green and blue, complementing the dark wood furniture that was polished to a gleam. The bed and desk were things she was especially pleased with, not just because of their sturdy build, but Jaina knew the carpenters who had painstakingly carved each piece.

Sylvanas paused by her desk, one hand outstretched and sliding along the edge of its neatly polished surface. “Is everything to your liking, Proudmoore?”

“Of course,” Jaina said. “I made sure of it.”

“I did want your opinion on one more thing.” Gesturing towards something across the room, the Warchief said, “If you would.”

Curiously, Jaina turned and paused.

Sylvanas watched her with a curious eye. There was something eager within the blood-red gleam of them; as if the banshee was masking a sort of anxiousness that Jaina felt often when awaiting approval. The question came rather quietly, almost hesitant. “Do you like it?”

The throw sat neatly draped over the back of her reading chair. She did not need to caress it under her hand to know it was lush; warm and soft, and made of splendorous burgundy. A plush trim of hunter green reminded her fondly of home and the swaying banners of her father’s ship.

“I thought you might like to keep warm when you read,” Sylvanas murmured. “The weather is cooler now. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable when you visit the library.”

“It’s lovely,” Jaina said, breathless and thick. “I —” She turned to Sylvanas and suddenly found herself speechless, despite the profuse thanks that seemed ready to bubble in her chest. She turned and looked and was suddenly overcome with the urge to do something entirely different with her lips than speaking.

Sylvanas shifted her weight from foot-to-foot, frowning uncertainly. “Is it not to your liking —”

She swept forward in a rush and pressed her lips against Sylvanas’ cheek. It was chaste and quick — entirely impulsive —, but still Jaina would remember the touch of unnaturally cool skin against her lips. The scent of cold steel, flowers, and petrichor were sharp on her nose, the sound of an echoing gasp that came as she pulled away.

They stared at each other for a time. It could have been a second, an hour, a year — Jaina couldn’t distinguish the passage of time for the endless bleeding whorls of fire in Sylvanas’ wide eyes.

“I —” She licked her lips and looked down at her feet. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

Sylvanas’ hand rose for an instant and dropped away quickly. “Jaina —”

“Goodnight,” she blurted. Then she turned on her heels and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quel'Alar is the term I made up for Regent Lord bc fuck canon


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> family visits part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u tell me this isn't slowburn i s2g
> 
> brace urself for some hardcore pining after this

V

\-------

In hindsight, running away was perhaps the worst thing she could have done. Not merely for the fact that it was an outrageously cowardly thing to do, but it was made even more ridiculous by the fact that she'd fled from her own rooms.

But here she was; hiding away in her study instead. Right next to her bedroom.

Jaina braced herself on the edge of her desk and stared blindly into her ink blotter. It felt as if there was a hummingbird trapped in her chest, frantic wings beating against her sternum for release. She took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled it in a hiss.

“_Fuck_.”

It was ridiculous, truly. To flee; to run like a blushing schoolgirl in the face of a crush. Blushing and bumbling as she ran without thought. The kiss was even more foolish — only because of how impulsively she'd given it. It was just a _ gift_. Her wife had thought of her fondly enough to commission a throw that would appeal most to her disposition.

Sylvanas was being _ nice_. Thoughtful.

What did she do?

She'd gone and made an absolute buffoon of herself.

Frustration bubbled in her chest more than the shame. They’d exchanged gifts before in the years of their marriage; perfunctory things, usually. Impersonal trinkets that were usually commissioned or purchased by others and given their signatures at the last minute before being neatly sealed away with a bow. She couldn’t remember the last thing she gave Sylvanas with careful thought.

Was it a quill holder? An inkwell? Something practical, surely.

The last gift she remembered receiving from the Warchief had been a surprisingly thoughtful thing. A finely-tooled letter opener made of iridescent mother of pearl, inscribed with vibrant jade and ice blue sea glass in its handle. 

She remembered what a surprise it had been to receive it. An extravagant replacement to the one that fell victim to her own clumsy elbow.

She had no doubt it was sitting in its place in her desk, carefully hidden away wrapped in a cotton kerchief. The temptation to hold it came to her in a soft rush; to caress its fine lines and worry the edge of it against the pad of her thumb. To kindle a sensation other than the tingling in her lips.

Jaina brought her balled fists hard against the desk, heaving slightly in the loud cacophony of noise that came after.

There was a quiet, hesitating murmur from the door.

“I didn't quite imagine you being so upset over a throw, Proudmoore.”

Jaina whirled on a gasp. Sylvanas hovered in the entrance of her study, hip leaned against open door. Once more her heart leapt up into her throat and strangled her. “Sylvanas —” The name came out of her mouth in a croak and she scrambled to smother the sound with a hand.

“Forgive me,” Sylvanas said quietly. “You must think me quite rude.”

Lowering her hand cautiously, Jaina frowned. “Of course not,” she insisted, frowning with confusion. “It wasn't you —”

“I only mean for invading your space,” the Warchief continued gently. “But I couldn't in good conscience let you run off like that without clarifying some things.”

Once more, the mortification returned with a vicious vengeance. She swallowed back a breath and forced herself to remember her graces; what good did their marriage do if she couldn’t take mortification in the face of her wife? “I’m...sorry. It was very forward of me.”

“I didn't mind it,” Sylvanas replied, with her arms yet folded casually behind her back.

Jaina blinked. “O-oh?”

Sylvanas smiled, and it was something indulgent; something much softer than one would expect from the Banshee Queen. There was, as ever, something deeply guarded there. Something caught behind a layer of self-deprecation and arrogance and a faint sort of uncertainty that she only ever saw when they were alone. 

“I understand that affection between us may seem...alien to you,” Sylvanas said, peering at Jaina keenly. She spoke with a strange, deliberate weight in her words; a careful manoeuvring across a delicate and unpredictable frozen lake. “But I'd like to think that you and I might reach a point in our marriage someday when we can be close without…” She gestured vaguely at the vast space between them. “..._this_.”

Jaina flushed guiltily. “We can be close,” she muttered, taking a sudden and vested interest in the lacing of her boots. “We’ve been close before. We were close for a long while.”

“Proximity-wise, yes.” Sylvanas’ lips curved once more into a wry smile. “But let’s not pretend that you didn’t despise me.”

She sputtered indignantly. “I didn’t _ despise _you, I — I just —”

“Hated my guts?”

Floundering slightly, she reached for the best thing she could. “As if you didn’t hate mine.”

The Warchief paused and blinked. “I didn’t,” she replied quietly. The silence fell between them like a thick, suffocating blanket of snow, of fog on the path on a particularly dense morning.

Jaina swallowed back a shiver. “I didn’t either,” she said, with feeling, then tilted her head begrudgingly. “...sometimes. But it wasn’t _ hate_. You just infuriated me.”

Coyly, Sylvanas asked, “Do I infuriate you still, wife?”

“Yes,” Jaina replied flatly. “Every day.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Sylvanas grinned, and Jaina found herself grinning back. Years of constant barbs and vicious words had somehow died away to an amiable teasing, and she was stunned to realise that she felt..._pleased _ at the thought. The comfortable ribbing she did with the Banshee Queen was not so easily replicated with anyone else. 

The tension between them eased away slowly. Jaina rocked back on her heels slightly and found the Warchief shifting her weight the same; grounding themselves once more on familiar territory.

Sylvanas noticed the same and grinned all the more. “I suppose that’s testament enough of how _ close _we’ve become.”

“I was wondering where all these bad habits were coming from,” Jaina drawled.

Sylvanas clicked her tongue and wagged a finger in mock-affront. “Pots and kettles, dear.”

They shared another smile until the moment passed, and the awkwardness began to creep slowly into the space between them again. With a quiet sound in her throat, Jaina did her best to regain a sense of dignity as she met Sylvanas’ steady gaze once more. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I really do like the throw. The colours are very pretty. And it looked soft.”

Sylvanas inclined her head almost shyly. “I wasn’t sure if you would appreciate the colour scheme. Burgundy is a Forsaken colour.”

Jaina blinked. “That’s exactly why I _ do _like it,” she said, with no small amount of feeling. “It goes well with the green. And —” she flushed and stared hard at a distant corner of the room, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. The taste of copper on her tongue made her eyes flicker back to her wife. With a casual shrug, she said, “And it reminds me of you. Your colours.” She gave the Warchief a look that was at once knowing and shy. “Isn’t that why you chose it?”

“...perhaps,” Sylvanas mumbled, shifting her feet against the carpet. “But it is as you say — the colours complement each other very nicely.” She wrinkled her nose slightly and gestured as if swatting away a bothersome fly. “Besides, blue is an Alliance colour. You already have an entire wardrobe of blue.”

“I quite like blue,” Jaina replied indignantly.

“It’s certainly a flattering shade on you, yes,” Sylvanas said agreeably. “Brings out your eyes.”

Jaina paused at that, eyes widening briefly as warmth once more crawled up into her cheeks and burned there. “I thought we talked about teasing me.”

Peering at her seriously, Sylvanas said, “I wasn’t teasing.”

Oh.

She swallowed thickly and huffed out a breath. “Thank you, I suppose,” she murmured, ducking her head down briefly before sucking in a steadying breath and meeting Sylvanas’ eyes with a stubborn thrust of her chin. “It’s getting quite late.”

“Of course.” Sylvanas stepped back smoothly, clearing the path for her towards the door. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Jaina inclined her head gratefully, keenly aware of her wife’s figure lingering at her back as they both exited her study. As she passed along the threshold of her bedroom door, she felt the hesitant brush of cool fingers against her wrist. She paused, turning to peer at Sylvanas in surprise. The uncertainty in her wife’s blazing eyes stunned her enough to lose all thought of speaking.

“Goodnight,” Sylvanas whispered. The touch on her wrist lingered for a moment longer before callused fingertips stroked along the back of her knuckles. “Pleasant dreams, Jaina.”

The Warchief moved away quickly, disappearing behind the doors of her own rooms. 

Jaina curled her hand into a fist, the phantom caress tingling against her skin. “Goodnight,” she croaked, though there was no one left to hear it.

She fell into bed and dreamed of purples and greens and moonlit kisses.

\-----------

Adjusting to their new rooms was surprisingly easy enough. Months of close proximity — at war and at home — made space-sharing almost second nature to Jaina. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still a learning curve. Sylvanas hated the piles of books and reports Jaina left on the tables around the living room.

Jaina hated her organising them.

Things weren’t always perfect; some nights they turned their backs on one another with frigid glares and slammed doors. Those nights were cold and sleepless for Jaina, though gratefully far and few between. Apologies came quickly to them, which surprised her the first time their bickering graduated into genuine anger. 

Trays of breakfast and little sprigs of flowers in full bloom delivered to her door, notes slotted between pages of her pleasure reading. She did her best to atone in similar ways — when she could admit her slights. The Banshee Queen had no use for trays of food or rich brews of coffee. The most Sylvanas ever asked of her was a verbal apology.

Still, Jaina did her best to keep things fair in their marriage. Notes on Sylvanas’ desk in the mornings; new whetstones or armour polish. The occasional treat made by the kitchens under strict supervision of Alina or a dark ranger. Something that would’ve been appreciated a lifetime ago; when sweet treats and desserts were rewards after a long day of Farstrider training.

It was certainly one thing Jaina learned to truly appreciate. For all their flaws combined, humility came quickly in their marriage.

It wasn’t unusual for her to return to their rooms and find Sylvanas sitting in the living room tucked into a chair, perusing her reports idly. It wasn’t unusual for her to curl up on the opposite end of the lounge seat, to shed her boots and curl her feet under her. They made enquiries about each other’s day if spent apart. They bickered about meetings if they shared one.

Most nights, they ate together by the fireplace.

As the weather continued to cool and the days grew shorter, Hallow’s End became a priority to the Banshee Queen. Its significance to the Forsaken was a great one, even more so with Azshara’s defeat. Jaina helped where she could, though most of her days were centred around delegating finances and adjusting budgets for the changing weather.

The planning for Hallow’s End took Sylvanas away for most of the day, though Jaina tried not to think about the strange, festering roil in her gut at the thought. A small consolation despite the sudden bustle of the Keep was that she never ate alone. One evening over dinner, Alina came to them with a letter. “From Vereesa Windrunner, my lady.”

Sylvanas’ ear twitched at the name, peering sidelong at her as she took the letter but made no further acknowledgement of it. Jaina broke the seal on the letter and opened it without fanfare, skimming the words quickly.

She paused, blinking. “They’re making a visit soon. Some time next week.”

“Oh?” Sylvanas dipped a slice of bread into her stew and chewed slowly.

“They’re coming to speak with the other elven leaders about an autumn festival they want to host. A sort of...olive branch, I suppose. They want to show the world that the divide can mend itself.” She lowered the letter onto the table and peered at Sylvanas expectantly. “You didn’t mention a meeting with the elven leaders.”

Shrugging, the Warchief said, “I wasn’t aware of such a meeting until Lor’themar brought it to my attention some few days ago. I’m sure the Regent Lord and First Arcanist will make the appropriate decisions for their people. Hallow’s End is the celebration of _ my _ people.”

“How _ are _we celebrating Hallow’s End this year?” Jaina asked curiously. “After the Wickerman burning.”

“A ball, no doubt, but I haven’t given it much thought,” Sylvanas admitted, nursing her port. “Lor’themar suggested a masquerade for a change.”

Jaina tilted her head thoughtfully. “That would be nice,” she hummed, eyes faraway. “I haven’t been to one in a while.”

There was a strange flicker in Sylvanas’ eyes before she inclined her head. “Then it’s settled. A masquerade ball it is. We can discuss the plans for it after your little meeting with the elven leaders. It’s not for a time yet.”

“I wasn’t invited to it, it was just mentioned in the letter. I still think they should’ve at least extended an invitation to you,” Jaina insisted. “No matter how cursory.”

“My presence is clearly undesired. I can respect that. There’s no point in thinking on it too hard — you’ll just give yourself a headache.”

The impassive expression on her wife’s face made Jaina’s chest stir with something incandescent. “That’s a little rude, no? You’re still quel’dorei.”

Sylvanas gave her a wry smile from across the table. “We’ve established that my sisters see me as the furthest thing from family, wife. To call me a quel’dorei in front of my sisters would be equivalent to spitting on our family grave. Highborne elves consider themselves the purest blood of the elven race. The history between the quel’dorei and its consequent factions has left much to be desired with our internal politics. At best, and certainly by a stretch, I am sin’dorei.”

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “It can’t be that bad if even Tyrande is willing to attend the meeting.”

Sylvanas’ ears pricked upright in surprise then flattened. “All the more reason I prefer to abstain.”

She knew better than to push. “They’re asking if I have time to meet for tea after the meeting. Vereesa and Alleria.”

Sylvanas shrugged again. “It is about that time of the season, I suppose. I shall make a note to have Alina keep your schedule clear.”

Jaina peered at her furtively. “It’s been a while since you’ve spoken to your sisters, hasn’t it?”

“Some few months, I suppose. Thereabouts. We exchanged pleasantries after the war, remember?” She smiled bitterly then, and Jaina recalled the last any of the Windrunner sisters addressed each other. It was a horror as much as it was a surprise to realise that neither Alleria nor Vereesa had made the effort of ever checking on Sylvanas after their battle with Azshara.

A sudden and encompassing flare of anger rose from the depths of her chest, thudding sharply in her neck and festering in her throat. So much for sisterly concern.

“You don’t have to accompany me,” she said from between teeth she hadn’t realised was gritted together. She loosened her jaw quickly, peering at Sylvanas with a look she desperately hoped the banshee could read. “But I’d very much like you there, if you wanted.”

Sylvanas stared for a long moment, emotions unreadable but for the telltale swivel of her ears. Jaina waited, barely breathing, barely daring to blink. The relationship between the Windrunner sisters continued as a frayed, strained line between all of them, a few threads shy of snapping entirely. To ask for such a thing was far too intimate, surely. Far too familiar even for a wife.

Finally, at length, Sylvanas said, “If it pleases you, then yes. I shall accompany you.”

Jaina exhaled slowly with an uncertain smile. “Are you sure? I understand if it makes you uncomfortable. I just don’t want it to be where you’ll have to disappear every time they come by to visit.” She paused, then added quickly, “Unless, of course, you would prefer that.”

Sylvanas smiled back slowly. She didn’t reply immediately, savouring her port for a swallow or two before carefully placing the crystal tumbler back onto the table. “You make a fair point,” she sighed, leaning back into her high-backed chair and tapping her fingernail idly against the tablecloth. “It’s only inevitable that we cross paths now that things are _ friendlier _ between the factions.”

“I can tell the thought positively _ delights _you.”

“You and I share different affections for the likes of my sisters and Tyrande,” Sylvanas replied mildly, with a thoughtful look on her face. “I dare say they’d say the same about the affections _ you _ share for me.”

Jaina wrinkled her nose as ire bloomed fresh in her chest. “If they have a problem with my _ affection _ for you, they can keep it to themselves.” She huffed, helping herself to a hearty mouthful of port.

“Careful, dear,” Sylvanas drawled, grinning. “People will think you’ve gone mad.”

“Mad, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “To think that my wife and I get along.”

“Unheard of in many cultures, as I’ve understood it.”

“I told you to stop picking on Genn,” she chided, to which Sylvanas merely grinned unrepentantly. Despite herself, Jaina found herself grinning back. “Tea, then? In the courtyard?”

A flickering look crossed Sylvanas’ features as she stared thoughtfully into the fireplace. “The gardens, perhaps,” she suggested, glowing eyes sliding sidelong at Jaina. “The cool weather is bringing the autumn flowers into bloom. It will be a pleasant conversation piece should the need arise.”

“The gardens, then,” Jaina said, then sobered. Sylvanas’ ear twitched, swivelling towards her as if sensing the change before the banshee slowly turned to look at her. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Really.”

“Of course,” Sylvanas replied quietly. “You’re my wife. It pleases me to see you happy.”

Warmth stirred in Jaina’s belly and spread upwards into her cheeks as she set aside the letter. She picked at her meal disinterestedly, pushing it away half-eaten. 

Sylvanas’ eyes were keen on her, a bright glow of something unreadable. Her voice carried in a quiet thrum across the table. “Would you prefer your bath tonight or the morning?”

The overbearingly large bath chambers of the Great Chambers was a shared one; consisting of a modestly-sized sunken tub that could comfortably fit four if they wished it. Jaina took full advantage of it whenever she could. Or rather — she would have, if not for the continuous loom of knowing that she might one day see Sylvanas naked again, whether by intention or otherwise.

The thought of Sylvanas spread out in the bath, lounging as she did that day made Jaina’s cheeks burn ever hotter and she shook her head.

“The morning, I think,” she muttered, turning away with feigned interest at the tapestry on the wall. “I still have some reports to finish before our meeting with the treasurer tomorrow.”

Sylvanas nodded sagely. “Coffee, then.”

“I knew there was a reason I married you,” Jaina sighed, staring at her with open adoration.

Sylvanas scoffed, though the corner of her lip was already curling into a smile that Jaina met. “Spoiled little thing. They’ll think I’ve gone soft for how pampered you’ve become.” She wagged a finger disapprovingly. 

“Is that better or worse than the alternative?” Jaina asked.

“Hard to tell at this point. Does that mean you _ don’t _ want me to bring you coffee?” Sylvanas asked, tilting her head as a slow smirk of amusement pulled at her lips. The blaze of her eyes sparked in that coy way of hers; the one Jaina learned to recognise whenever she was in the mood for teasing.

She narrowed her eyes and glared at her wife, to which Sylvanas merely grinned in return. She made a small huff of indignation and pouted, to which the Banshee Queen simply chuckled.

“Impossible.” Sylvanas rose from her seat smoothly, looking down with something like fondness in her eyes. “Absolutely spoiled rotten.” She shook her head with a grimness that belied the grin on her face that made Jaina all too aware of the affection in their exchange. “Curse this soft heart of mine.”

“So you admit it,” Jaina said, thrusting out her chin smugly. “Soft.”

Sylvanas scowled. As she moved past Jaina towards the doors, she reached out and pinched a cheek gently. Barely any pressure at all, nothing to sting — but the touch was like a cool winter breeze in the height of summer. “Little imp.”

Jaina stared, reaching up to rub at her cheek as Sylvanas disappeared. A strange emotion overcame her — madness, truly, it must be — as she began to grin. She hid it away quickly, ducking her head and pulling her lips together between her teeth, but the thrill settled into her belly and thrived there.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured, palming her cheek still. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

\--------

The week passed in a blur. Most of their days were caught in meetings and audiences; other days they rode out together for countryside counsel as the weather cooled further. Crops and livestock needed accounting for. Numbers needed tallying for proper preparations of the winter and the festivals that came with it. Sylvanas threw herself intently into plans for Hallow’s End, sat at her desk until candlelight gave way to sunrise.

Jaina kept herself equally invested in its planning, despite the heated arguments her role incited from her wife. A few frigid days and stubborn glares saw them working together in Sylvanas’ private study, where a plush chaise mysteriously appeared after the first night she had fallen asleep mid-scrawl over the latest cargo levy.

The second day, she brought her throw with her. It was as soft as it looked, as fine and plush as velvet and sheep’s wool combined. With her face burrowed into its warmth, sometimes she caught the barest trace of tulips and steel beneath.

As they sat to breakfast one morning, across a table of toast and eggs and assorted breakfast treats, Jaina peered at her wife over the rim of her coffee mug. “Alleria and Vereesa are coming today.”

Sylvanas did not look up from her reports, but grunted her acknowledgement.

“Are you still sure you want to come along?” she asked gently.

Another grunt came in reply, followed with a brief flit of glowing eyes over the top of the report.

Jaina rolled her eyes mildly. “You’re more than excused from joining us,” she said, not unkindly. “I don’t want you to suffer through this just for me.”

Sighing heavily, Sylvanas calmly folded her report and set it aside on the neat stack by her elbow. “It would be beneficial to maintain cordial relationships with them. I am not against the thought,” she admitted, though it came with a faint tremor of trepidation. “I simply wonder if my presence would not…” She grimaced slightly. “..._ complicate _ things.”

Of course. It was a concern she shared the same, but the stubbornness in Jaina’s blood only reared its head ever higher at the thought. “You’re my wife. Even if you weren’t their sister, they’d have to learn to play nice with you as my spouse. Let’s just keep this as friendly as we can,” she said. “If not friendly, then just...diplomatic, I suppose.”

Sylvanas hummed but relented. “As you wish, wife,” she said with a much put-upon sigh.

Jaina rolled her eyes again, smiling as she did. “Honestly, you’re worse than a pouting child.”

“We go well together then,” Sylvanas replied drolly, rising from her seat and moving down the table to pull out Jaina’s. She held out an arm without thought, which Jaina took with equal instinct, their pace falling into line as they went.

They walked the corridors, flanked ever-faithfully by Alina as they went. “Theron will be leaving for Kul Tiras after the meeting. Did you manage to send along your list?” Sylvanas asked.

“Yes. Tea and new leathers for the horses. The stirrup straps of Brightblade’s saddle are wearing down.”

Sylvanas pursed her lips and sniffed haughtily. “Surely you could’ve sent along to Quel’Thalas for leathers. The workmanship of elven leather is known by all.”

“Horsemanship is in Kul Tiran blood as well,” Jaina reminded her smugly. “Our horses are the finest bred chargers and destriers across Azeroth. They need durable gear. Elven mounts are so…”

“Refined.”

“_Flamboyant_,” Jaina countered, grinning at the sidelong look Sylvanas cast her way. “And in any which case, Kul Tiran leatherwork is just as impressive. More so, I’d wager. We build to weather storms.”

The muscles in Sylvanas’ arm flexed slightly until Jaina felt her fingers squeezed together. “You’re a hardy lot, certainly.”

“Careful, Warchief. People will think you actually like me,” she said, giving Sylvanas’ arm a squeeze in her own. “You know the last time —”

A throat cleared in front of them. “Jaina?”

Jaina paused in her step, pulling her gaze from Sylvanas’ face to the pair in front of them. “Oh! Vereesa. Alleria.” She blinked at the matching look of stunned silence they greeted her with but remained arm-in-arm with her wife. She smiled. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Stiff and straight-backed beside her, Sylvanas regarded the pair with an impassive nod.

“Jaina,” Alleria croaked. Her eyes darted from her sister’s face to Jaina’s, narrowing slightly in confusion and suspicion and bewilderment. “Warchief.”

Sylvanas smiled coldly. “Sisters. Welcome.”

Jaina detached herself from Sylvanas’ side only long enough to share a chaste cheek-to-cheek kiss with both sisters. She returned to her place at her wife’s side without thought; without effort, slotting her hand onto the ever-ready arm. The tension in the air was unavoidable, mounting ever higher the longer they stood staring at one another, and Vereesa was steadily losing colour to her face. She gave them all a tight smile and tugged gently at the Warchief’s arm.

“Let’s see what they brought up from the kitchens for us. The gardens are beautiful this year.”

They walked through the modest pathway lined in bushes of flowers in brightly-coloured shades, guiding Vereesa and Alleria down along the way. They sat beneath a shaded trellis of hanging vines and flowers, sunlight spilling between the latticework. The table was set for four along a length that comfortably fit two benches across one another. Sylvanas gestured to the bench and Jaina went readily, barely reacting when the Warchief reached out to smooth down the back of her dress for her.

Pressed close, thighs brushing, Sylvanas reached for the teapot and wordlessly filled their cups.

“Tell me how things have been. How did the meeting go?” Jaina asked. Without looking, she reached out and accepted a cup from Sylvanas, casting a sidelong smile at her wife as she sipped her tea. 

Sylvanas met her gaze, lip twitching slightly into a lopsided smirk.

Vereesa swallowed, speaking for the first time as she lifted her own cup and saucer to her lips. “No milk and sugar for you this time?”

Jaina blinked and looked down at her cup, setting it down on the table. It was just as she always took her tea — milk and a generous touch of sugar. It hadn’t even occurred to her to check. Sylvanas seemed to always know.

“Such is a consequence of wedded bliss, as it were,” Sylvanas drawled, leaning back slightly to cross her legs and drape an arm over the backrest behind Jaina. “Please — don’t let me interrupt. I believe Jaina asked about your meeting.”

“There’s still much that our factions have to heal,” Alleria supplied. “This is only the first meeting, but the reception of the idea gave us hope.”

Jaina arched a brow in surprise. “Thalyssra and Tyrande actually saw eye-to-eye?”

Alleria squirmed slightly, squaring her shoulders. “They were open to laying their animosities to rest.”

“Hmm.” Sylvanas tapped her fingers idly along the backrest, jerking her head at her youngest sister. “And you, Little Moon; have you and the Regent Lord settled _ your _grudges?”

Vereesa stiffened and sat up straighter. “We’re doing the best for both our people.”

To ease the rising tension between them, Jaina reached out and laid a hand on Sylvanas’ knee, squeezing slightly. “We _ all _ do what we can for our people.” She gave them a speaking look, lingering most on her wife, until the Banshee Queen set her jaw and sighed.

“As you say, wife.”

Vereesa’s eyes lingered on the touch, but she felt no inclination to remove it. They were _ married_. Touching one another was only natural.

The youngest Windrunner cleared her throat awkwardly. “Much has changed since we last visited. It’s...nice to see people adjusting to one another.”

Jaina smiled, glancing at her wife. “It is, isn’t it? We’ve had quite the year.” She leaned forward slightly, bracing herself on the knee she held. “It’s been one thing after the other since the war ended. But it suits us, I think.” She gave Sylvanas’ knee a pat. “I don’t think we’re built for sitting idle.”

“I hope...you’re not both overworking yourselves.”

“There isn’t enough work _ to _overwork for at this point.” She shook her head and sighed almost in lament.

Sylvanas smirked, though it lacked her usual venom. “Despite her best efforts.”

Jaina squinted at her, squeezing her knee slightly before turning back to Alleria and Vereesa. “How are your boys doing? The twins and Arator?”

“They miss you,” Vereesa said warmly. “They’ve been insisting you come and visit soon. They adored the gifts you sent.”

Jaina wrinkled her brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

From beside her, Sylvanas stiffened somewhat. She bent forward and took up her tea, swirling it idly. “They had a birthday recently. Sixteen or so, now.”

Jaina blinked. “Tides, they did, didn’t they?” How had she even forgotten? Too much time had passed without thought. “I don’t know how it slipped my mind, I feel terrible.”

Sylvanas reached out and laid a hand over the one gripping her knee. Leaning forward just enough until her lips could just barely brush against the shell of Jaina’s ear. “I sent something along. Don’t fret. It was signed from us both.”

She blinked again and stared. “You did?”

“Yes. A fine pair of bows and a collection of books on the history of Silvermoon.” Sylvanas paused and looked at her uncertainly. “I remember you said Giramar liked to read.”

“He does.” She looked down at their joined hands and brushed her thumb over Sylvanas’ wedding ring. It surprised her to realise it — that the Warchief was still such an unknown factor to her own nephews.

She gave Sylvanas’ hand a warm squeeze. “Good, then. Thank you for remembering.” Turning back to Vereesa, she smiled sheepishly. “Please do send my love to them. And Arator, too.”

Jaina was keenly aware of the strange look on Alleria’s face, though the eldest Windrunner seemed content with observing rather than participating. 

“The flowers are very pretty in bloom,” Vereesa said. “It’s always nice to see the colours in the fall.”

From the corner of her eye, Jaina caught the smirk on Sylvanas’ face but ignored it. They carried on into idle conversations for a little while longer, until Vereesa and Alleria were called away at last. They saw the sisters away together; though the hugs and kisses remained exclusively imparted from her side of things.

“Until another time,” Sylvanas said, by way of farewell. “I hope your endeavours in securing the autumn festival bears fruit.”

“And yours,” Alleria said stiffly. “I look forward to seeing your plans for this Hallow’s End.”

Jaina gave Vereesa one final hug before drifting back to Sylvanas’ side. “We look forward to seeing you then,” she replied. With a final wave goodbye, they watched as Vereesa and Alleria disappeared through the portal gates. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, she peered up at her wife with an uncertain smile. “Not too bad, was it?”

Sylvanas stared at the portal gates for another moment longer. At length then, she said, “No.” They turned away together. “I don’t suppose it was.”

Jaina beamed up at her, squeezing their arms together tight. “Good,” she said. “Good. I’m very glad to hear it.”

“I’m still not going for the autumn festival.”

She gave Sylvanas another squeeze. “I would never ask that of you. Do you have any further meetings for the day?” she asked.

Sylvanas shrugged. “None that are too pressing.” She cast a sidelong look at Jaina, one full of coy knowing. “The day is quite pleasant yet. Perhaps a ride through the valley?”

“Only if we bring something to eat with us. I think I had four of those cucumber sandwiches and I’m _ still _hungry.”

Chuckling, Sylvanas inclined her head obligingly. “Of course, dear.”


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: insubordinate and bratty dark rangers
> 
> also warning: incredibly gay idiots

CHAPTER VI

\-----

Autumn was in full swing by the time plans for Hallow’s End and the Wickerman Festival were coming to a head. The temperature cooled steadily as trees drooped and slouched to unburden themselves of their crisp flame-kissed leaves. Children from both factions; humans, orcs, trolls, tauren — flocked into the streets, giggling and squealing as they leapt with abandon into piles of fallen leaves.

A slow-building thrum of excitement began to fill the kingdom; it would be the first Hallow’s End celebrated without war looming over their heads.

It thrilled Jaina the same, knowing that their people were coming together to fully embrace a celebration cherished by the Forsaken and Horde.

There was still much to do, but Jaina’s thoughts at the present moment were to hunt down her wife.

The letter came one day as she sat in her study, as unexpected as it could have been. Jaina kept in touch with her mother as often as she remembered to, but Katherine Proudmoore had a schedule that was no less filled in her retirement. The news that came sent a strange little thrill through her at the thought of telling Sylvanas.

The sound of her wife’s voice came to her almost as soon as the thought did, and Jaina looked up from her desk curiously. She tilted her head and listened. It seemed to come from her open window; the one in her study that overlooked a portion of the Keep’s gardens and courtyard. Rising to her feet, she made her way to the adjoining door of their studies.

She entered as she knocked; a habit now that formed across the weeks. Sylvanas’ study was the one place she felt content with doing so — their bedrooms, of course, were another story altogether. “Sylvanas —”

She paused, peering about the room, only to find it devoid of her wife.

Jaina frowned. Odd. There was no doubt that the voice she’d heard from her window was Sylvanas’, but where could the Banshee Queen have been? Their studies’ windows and balconies opened out nearly parallel to one another; she was quite sure she could verily climb across the two if she tried.

The muffled but carrying thrum of Sylvanas’ voice came once more and Jaina turned curiously towards the balcony.

She hesitated at the lazy sway of the drapes, swallowing back the memory of the last she’d seen those billowing curtains and steeled herself. As she stepped carefully towards the open doors, she called out in an undertone. “Sylvanas?”

She swept aside the drapes and stepped out onto the balcony.

Empty again, but then she could hear clearly the sound of a scuffle. Curiously, she pressed her hands against the cool flat surface of the balustrade and peered over it.

Sylvanas was standing in the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by her rangers. The tunic she wore was sleeveless and cut to mould to the figure of her in ways that made Jaina all too aware of the broad line of her shoulders. The prominent musculature of her back.

It was a six-to-one battle; each ranger armed with blunted training daggers as they crowded into the Banshee Queen. Sylvanas danced around them almost without effort — deflecting and dealing blows as she went. Her resonant voice calling out sharply amidst grunts and hisses of exertion as one dagger or another connected.

She watched as Sylvanas side-stepped a lunging attack from Lyana, twisting sideways so fast Jaina nearly couldn’t track it. The dark ranger staggered forward from momentum, warbling out a low Thalassian word that she recognised very well to be a rather crass expletive.

Sylvanas clicked her tongue and dropped Lyana down to the dirt with a lazy sweep of her leg. She spoke then, but Jaina couldn’t make out the words for the distance. Kalira went for her from behind, but she ducked abruptly, barely even glancing behind her as she dodged the wide arcing blow. She swung around on her heels, deflecting another two attacks with a deft lunge and backflip before the other came to her at once.

Jaina caught the cry in her throat before it could spill forth, clenching her fists tight to quell the prickle of magic that itched at her fingertips as she watched the dark rangers swarm her wife. It was instinct; purely that. They’d fought a war together — it was instinct now to protect Sylvanas.

But these were the Banshee Queen’s rangers. Theirs was a loyalty rarely seen in these times. They fought for Sylvanas; they died for her. No matter the call of duty, their loyalty was an undying flame. Jaina was lucky enough to bear witness to their devotion, as Consort to the Dark Lady.

She understood and knew perfectly well what was the depth of Sylvanas’ relationship with the dark rangers. Many — if not all — of them had served at one point or another with the Banshee Queen. In time when SIlvermoon still stood and their hearts still beat. Sylvanas’ tenure as Ranger-General had earned her wife a reputation long before the fall of Silvermoon.

Watching them train was a bitter reminder to Jaina of the long, long life Sylvanas had lived.

With a steadying breath, Jaina chided herself and watched on. It was nothing short of a reminder to those who watched from the sidelines the same — that Sylvanas was a monument of power. Years of training, of war, had carved the Warchief into a being of precision and finesse. She watched on, rapt, at the seamless way her wife threw off the six rangers without an ounce of banshee power. Everything Sylvanas did came from only skill and experience; no powers, no mists, no unholy banshee screams.

Lyana went down first, then Kalira. Velonara and Thyla caught elbows to the throat and chest before tumbling into a pile. Clea circled the Warchief carefully, swooping in for weak points that Sylvanas could not protect while fending off the others. There was a moment when the Banshee Queen went down on a knee, but it passed with a swift spin and kick.

Alina managed a valiant fight against the Banshee Queen’s assault before ceding to a blade at her throat. It continued on for a few moments longer; Jaina clinging to the balustrades tighter and tighter without thought as they dealt more and more blows.

Each of the rangers fell in the end; until the Banshee Queen was left standing alone amidst the scattered figures at her feet. Jaina watched with an inexplicable fascination — or perhaps not inexplicable, but fascination, surely.

The Warchief lifted an arm and calmly flung her daggers at the closest target. They struck true, burying deep into the torso of a straw dummy.

Sylvanas didn’t even bother looking.

Closer now to the balcony, Jaina could only just make out the thrum of her voice. “Very good. I’m glad to see your training hasn’t left you. You put up a fair fight, but I can tell you’re all getting sloppy.”

Sylvanas gestured towards them, murmuring something that had the rangers moving into pairs. Her ear twitched and swivelled for a moment, flattening slightly as a faint ripple of mist began to bleed from her form. Blood-red eyes flickered, then all of her shimmered into a dark plume of shadows.

Jaina blinked, brows furrowing in confusion as she leaned further out on the balcony to track her wife —

_ “Were you looking for me?” _

She all but leapt out of her skin, shrieking as she spun around to find the still-misting form of her wife hovering on the balcony by her. She cursed and swore viciously, heaving a breath as she reached out without thought. “_Tides _ , you —” she pressed a hand to the rapid pound in her chest and swatted Sylvanas with the other. “Don’t —” she slapped the Warchief on the arm and shoulder with both hands. _ “_**_Do _ ** _ that!” _

Sylvanas leaned away but made no further attempt at dodging the attacks, grinning sheepishly. “Forgive me,” she said, though it was clear enough that she was anything but contrite. “I didn’t mean to startle you so.”

“Yes you did,” Jaina huffed, when the thunder of her pulse finally began to calm. “That was a rotten thing to do. _ Rotten_.”

Sylvanas grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Raising her hands appeasingly, she said, “I only came to ask if you needed something from me — you’ve been standing here a while.”

Jaina flushed, folding her arms and huffing again as she eyed Sylvanas warily. “How long have you known I was there?”

The Warchief gave her a look, arching one long brow. “It’s not as if you were particularly inconspicuous.” 

It was true that the balcony overlooked the courtyard from a rather obvious vantage point, but still. The low drawl of her words made Jaina huff a third time.

“Go on, then,” Sylvanas prompted, smirking as she leaned an arm onto the balustrade. “What was it you needed of me, wife?”

When she’d calmed Jaina considered pulling Sylvanas away. Aside from the letter, there were several things due in time for Hallow’s End, — though there was always something due no matter the time of year. Still, it wouldn’t be fair to pull the Banshee Queen away from their training. Her eyes wandered back down onto the courtyard, where the rangers watched her with equal measures of curiosity and amusement. 

That is, until Sylvanas shot them all a stern look. They scattered like schoolgirls, feigning disinterest as they picked up their daggers once more.

Alina gave her a little wave in greeting, which she returned with a slight fluster. “Never mind,” she said, turning back to Sylvanas. “It can wait for another time. Dinner, perhaps.”

Sylvanas peered at her for a moment, humming quietly. “As you say.” They watched silently as the dark rangers continued to train, sparring and tussling here and there. The Warchief whistled shrilly and gestured in a circle around the courtyard, to which the rangers made a simultaneous groan.

The unexpected protest made Jaina laugh in surprise. “What on earth was what?”

“A few laps around the courtyard to keep them on their toes,” Sylvanas replied. “When they were alive, they hated it for the exertion. Now they dislike it for the tedium.”

Settling back against the balustrade, Jaina watched her wife for a moment, took in the thoughtful look on Sylvanas’ face as they watched the rangers take an idle jog around the courtyard, huddled together as a pack. She looked away quickly towards the courtyard when she saw those burning eyes glance towards her. 

Casually, she said, “You’re quite the taskmaster with them.”

Sylvanas’ ear flicked idly as she hummed. “They get complacent at times. Mouthy.”

Jaina chuckled. “I’ve noticed.” She turned her back to the courtyard and leans her elbows back against the balustrade, peering at Sylvanas. “Do you train like this with them often?”

“Not as often as I’d like, but times of peace are no excuse to grow complacent.” Sylvanas tapped a finger idly against the polished surface of the balcony, glancing at her with a thoughtful look. “...would you care to join us?”

She startled at the suggestion. They had trained some during the war; fought one another with a combination of magic and brute strength, though she was quite certain that they were fighting to bleed at the time. She remembered coming away with fist-sized bruises each time, but she’d dealt her fair share of blows and bruises on the Warchief all the same.

It was strange to think of how far they’d come from wanting each other dead.

At length, she said, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s not an intrusion if it’s by invitation,” Sylvanas replied with amusement. “Indulge me, then. I haven’t trained with you in a while either.”

Jaina pursed her lips. “If you don’t mind,” she said, eyeing the courtyard uncertainly. “I don’t imagine I’d be anything up to par with dark rangers.”

Sylvanas stepped back from the balustrade, reaching out a gesturing hand. “I dare say you inhabit a league entirely your own, Lord Admiral.”

Jaina eyed the outstretched hand but did not protest, stepping into reach of it. She felt it come to rest easily along the small of her back; habit now, really — as she wove her hand briskly into a Blink. They were in the courtyard in the next moment, staring back at the rangers who were coming around from their lap.

They slowed to a walk at the sight of her, bowing at the hip but she waved them away quickly. “There’s no need for all of that,” she insisted. “I’m here as an equal.”

“Are you joining us, my lady?” Lyana asked, brows lifting with surprise as she grinned. “What a treat!”

She blinked. “It is?”

“Of course! It’s not every day we get such a fair maiden in our sights —”

“Lyana,” Alina chided, elbowing the ranger in the side.

Sylvanas arched a brow, though her mouth pulled into a wry smirk. “I think a few more laps will remind you to humble yourself in the presence of my consort.” She gestured towards the courtyard.

Jaina watched as the rangers groaned again but continued their pace around the training section of the courtyard. Turning to Sylvanas in confusion, she asked, “What was that all about?”

The Warchief shook her head. “Step-to, rangers,” she called out sharply, eyes keen on the moving group. “Don't think I don't see you dragging your feet, Lyana. If you lag behind, that's five more rounds for _ everyone _.”

The rangers groaned again and exchanged a sharp volley of words. Lyana straightened up and quickened her pace, dodging elbows sheepishly as she went.

Jaina smiled fondly as she watched them, stepping in close by Sylvanas' side. “Shouldn't you be out there with them?” she needled gently, jerking her chin at the yard. “A leader leads by example.”

Sylvanas huffed, folding her arms across her chest and rocking her weight back slightly on her heels. Jaina tried hard not to stare at the bulging muscles in her arms and shoulders. “This is a disciplinary bout,” she drawled, giving the Lord Admiral a sidelong glance. “I distribute the punishments where I see fit.”

“Is it really punishment with their...constitution the way that it is?”

Sylvanas gave her a slow look. “It's certainly less of a show than a spanking.”

“It's true!” Lyana called out as the rangers rounded towards them. “We'd rather run than be spanked.”

“Her hands are big,” Clea added. “Big and strong —”

Alina grabbed them both by the collar and shoved them back into the group, casting an apologetic look at Sylvanas as they went.

Jaina’s eyes widened and she darted to look at Sylvanas. “You don’t _ actually _—”

“Of course not,” Sylvanas replied quickly. “They're being insubordinate little brats.” She glared at them. “But I admit the notion is tempting.”

Though she understood the sentiment to be entirely teasing, Jaina couldn’t help the way her eyes dropped down to her wife’s hands. She looked away abruptly, shrugging off the layers of her corset vest and pouches until she was down to her tunic and skirt. From the corner of her eye, she caught Sylvanas’ probing stare.

She shrugged, setting her things neatly aside on the closest bench. “I can’t exactly run with a corset on.” She looked down at herself. “Or a skirt, for that matter.” She unfastened her skirts, looking up at the sharp inhalation that came from her wife.

There was a look in Sylvanas’ eyes that she couldn’t quite place. “You don’t have to run with them, you know.”

“I need the warmup anyway,” she replied, shedding her skirts without care. It was colder weather now; she never wore her skirts without a decent set of leggings underneath. Now liberated of her everyday things, she bent forward and sideways to stretch her legs. She winced slightly at the tight strain in her hamstrings and tendons, sighing as she straightened. Still, she could feel her wife’s probing gaze on her, but Jaina was more concerned with the fact that she was likely going to embarrass herself in front of Sylvanas’ elite.

It was too late to turn back now.

“Right,” she huffed, bouncing on the balls of her feet for a moment. “Let’s go.”

She broke into a quick jog, lengthening her pace until she was a comfortable distance from the rangers. It wasn’t as hard as she’d expected to catch up to them, but as she ran, she became keenly aware of the appreciative glances and low murmurs coming from the elves. She paid them no mind, biting back a flustered (and bewildered) grin as she heard a low whistle sound as she ran by.

The rangers slowed their pace until they fell in step a few feet behind her. They went around the courtyard once that way, and then Jaina turned her head to chide them again for the deference her titles entailed, but startled at the sound of a sharp crack. They scattered ahead of her in a rush, giggling and cursing among themselves.

Sylvanas appeared at her side, moving seamlessly in tandem with her pace. Her eyes were still set firmly on the rangers, jaw set and eyes narrowed with annoyance. In her hand, there was a towel wound tightly into a twist.

Jaina peered at her curiously. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” Sylvanas grumbled. “They’re just being little brats.” 

They kept an easy jog around the courtyard for a little while; the cooler weather afforded Jaina a reprieve from the building sweat she could feel running down her back and sticking to her tunic. She knew Sylvanas and the rangers did not sweat; did not exert themselves in the ways of the living. It was a thing she found herself envying terribly at that moment.

“Tides, I’ve got to work on my stamina more,” Jaina puffed, slowing to a stop as they rounded the courtyard a fourth time. Her physical strength wasn’t something to scoff at; she carried her staff slung on her back and sprinted full-speed across a battlefield without even trying. Still, it had been a time since she’d taken a bout around the training yard. It was a modest size, but certainly its perimeter was a considerable distance to make.

She bent double and rested her hands on her knees, chest heaving. The prickle of sweat running down her cheek and hairline made her grimace, brushing it away impatiently with a sleeve.

Sylvanas cleared her throat quietly, holding out the towel. “I think that’s quite enough for a warmup,” she said, with a strange hardness in her voice. “You’ve run the equivalent of some few miles. Your muscles should be primed for battle by now.”

Jaina took the towel gratefully, patting at her cheeks and forehead before draping it around her neck. Breathless still and dubious, she said, “I don’t think that was a few miles.”

“I assure you that it was. The circumference of the courtyard is about half a mile around. You’ve run — what? Four, five rounds?”

Peering around the courtyard, Jaina replied, “I think you mean _ perimeter_.”

Sylvanas arched a brow, folding her arms with a slight huff. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“No, you said ‘circumference’. You use ‘circumference’ for something that’s round.”

“The courtyard is circular,” Sylvanas protested. “If you’d run the perimeter, you would’ve run on the outside, _ around _the Keep.”

“A circle with edges?” Jaina countered, placing a hand on her hip and cocking it as she eyed Sylvanas with amusement. “The circumference still means the exterior measurement. If you’re going by that logic, then we’d both be wrong.”

“I beg to differ,” the Warchief sniffed, looking away haughtily. “Six of one is —”

“— half a dozen of the other. I know,” Jaina drawled, grinning at the narrow-eyed look she received.

Lyana’s voice carried from across the courtyard. _“Get a room, you two!"_

Jaina startled, reeling back slightly as they both turned to look at the ranger hooting at them. It was only then that she became aware of how close they were standing; the steady and permeating thrum of Sylvanas’ aura blending into hers. She cleared her throat, looking away as she took a step back, dabbing at her cheeks to hide the rising flush of them.

“I didn’t think they’d be _ this _mouthy,” she muttered.

Sylvanas was misting slightly, her eyes aglow with mild annoyance as she glared at Lyana. “_That one _in particular has a penchant for mischief.” A lone tendril slithered down her arm and into her hand, materialising into a whip of some sort. “And insubordination.”

Their eyes met, a speaking look shared that reminded Jaina of the hours they’d spent cutting down nagas.

She grinned knowingly. From the tips of her fingers came a brilliant glow of blue frost. They burst forth as one.

Sylvanas surged ahead, more mist than anything else as she struck out with her whip. The rangers scattered with a cry, stumbling over themselves as they ducked and dodged the sharp snaps aimed for their ankles.

Jaina threw out a well-placed puddled of ice, chuckling slightly as Lyana skidded and slipped with a yelp. She moved quickly, placing herself at the opposite end of the courtyard as she cast a volley of harmless snowballs and frozen puddles. It was a sight to behold — the acrobatics the rangers fell into naturally to avoid her attacks. Aerial jumps, flips, and backflips; anything they had in their arsenal to dodge the lash of the Banshee Queen’s whip and the blasts of her magic.

“This isn’t fair! We didn’t agree on magic!” Kalira called out, throwing herself into a front handspring to narrowly avoid Sylvanas’ burst of tendrils. She landed in crouch, red eyes scanning the courtyard until she set her sights on Jaina.

Jaina’s eyes widened and she took a bracing step backwards. “Uh-oh —” She brought her hands together and threw out a shield, locking it into her arm as she conjured more snowballs with the other. Kalira came at her with the blunted daggers, pummeling at her with viper strikes and spinning kicks, slashing and jumping back each time as she pelted the ranger with a fresh batch of snowballs. There was no real threat of injury (at least, she hoped not), but she could see the burning intent in the ranger’s eyes.

Kalira struck out again and Jaina braced herself behind her shield. She could feel the blunt strength of the ranger’s blow, felt it trembling through her arms as she gritted her teeth and sank her heels into the earth.

Kalira bore down harder and Jaina went down on a knee.

She staggered, bracing a hand against the ground. She could feel the coolness of it beneath her fingers; saw the sharp jerking look Sylvanas cast her way. Shaking her head brusquely, she raised her eyes back to Kalira with a narrow-eyed smirk.

Digging her fingers into the earth, she brought it together into a snowball, flinging it into Kalira’s face with a cry.

“Fuck!” Kalira stumbled back with a squeal, shaking her head vigorously like a water-logged hound. “That’s c-cold!”

Jaina grinned, scrambling up to her feet as she melted the puddle beneath Kalira’s feet, curling her fingers into a fist as she urged the water up the ranger’s calves and set it to freeze once more. She threw out another two volleys of ice.

Kalira cursed, flailing slightly as the ice blasts encapsulated both wrists, binding her down onto her hands and knees. She yanked and tugged and grumbled, but it was futile. Huffing loudly, she lifted her head to glare at Jaina.

“It’s nothing personal,” Jaina said, somewhat apologetically. “It’s only training —”

Sylvanas came upon her with the scent of steel and sulphur and petrichor, a misting hand curling around her wrist and yanking her viciously to the side. _ “Proudmoore!” _

Jaina yelped, stumbling face-first into her wife’s chest as a pair of arms came around her tightly. She clung on the same; turning her head to look as Kalira broke free with a low growl, ice shattering in every direction. She gasped and threw out a hand defensively, bubbling them both in a small dome of blue.

The ice rained over them harmlessly; twinkling diamonds in the sunlight.

Jaina looked up at Sylvanas and saw the hard purse of her wife’s lips; the low pull of long brows. Blood-red eyes burned, black veins swallowing the better portion of the Warchief’s face. The grip around her tightened a moment, then almost reluctantly eased.

Mist and shadow dripped from Sylvanas like tar; the darkness pulled into her form like a void of blackness as she seemed to swell in size. Jaina stepped back in surprise, blinking at the animal sound that came from her throat. She blinked again, and suddenly she could taste wine — could see feathers and ridges and overgrown teeth —

Despite the fear, despite the bewilderment and confusion, Jaina reached out and grasped her wife’s wrist, clinging tight.

Sylvanas glanced at her sharply, a growl bubbling from a deadly throat. Jaina swallowed back the stir of _ something _in her belly and gave the wrist in-hand a squeeze. “It’s alright,” she said gently. “I’m okay. This is training.”

Long ears flicked and swivelled, flattening against an elegant skull as Sylvanas wrinkled her nose and snorted. The muscles in her arm twitched still for a moment, bleeding tension as much as she was bleeding mist. Then she heaved a sigh, shoulders lowering slightly. Glaring still, she said to Kalira, “That was spiteful, ranger. The whole point of a training exercise is to _ train_, not wound.”

Kalira bowed at the hip, one hand pressed hand pressed flat across her chest. “My deepest apologies, Dark Lady, Lady Proudmoore. I hadn’t expected the ice to shatter so violently.”

Jaina gave her a flustered smile, waving the apology aside. “It’s perfectly fine. I suppose it really wasn’t fair to cut into your training with something like magic.”

“It’s not even winter yet. I’m not ready for all this ice,” Lyana complained from somewhere behind them, but half of it came muffled through a face full of snow. Alina crossed the courtyard swiftly and silently; materialising at Jaina’s side.

Cocking her head to regard Jaina worriedly, Alina asked, “Are you alright, my lady?”

The rest of the rangers came around them, peering at her curiously, and the amount of attention and eyes on her at once made Jaina all too aware of the rising heat in her cheeks. “I’m fine!” she blurted, waving them off quickly as she ducked out of Sylvanas’ arms and dabbed at her cheeks with the towel again. “Really — no harm, no foul.”

Sylvanas reached out and clasped Kalira’s shoulder amiably. “I think we’ve had enough training for the day. Well done, rangers.”

“The oils, my Queen,” Lyana said, offering up a bowl of oils and a soaked rag that smelt of an assortment of pleasant herbs.

“Ah, good. Thank you, Lyana.” Sylvanas took the rag in hand and gestured to the others. “Quickly, before she spills it.”

Jaina blinked and tried her best not to let her eyes focus on the dripping oil that came from between her wife’s long fingers as she cradled the rag over the bowl. “Oils?” she asked curiously.

Sylvanas cocked an ear at her and smiled patiently. “Undead skin does not sweat. Wounds don’t heal. We need alternatives to keep our skin supple enough to withstand strenuous activity.”

“Strenuous activity,” Jaina mumbled distractedly, stepping back as the rangers crowded in to dip their own rags into the bowl.

“Like training,” Sylvanas offered, very helpfully, as she began to unfasten the buttons of her tunic. It split open from neck to waist, revealing the hard planes of her stomach; the bindings of her undergarments around her chest. The wounds, old and new, that painted her flesh before leading down to a fair trail of hair disappearing beneath her breeches —

Jaina blinked hard and looked up into the midday sky, staring at the path of a passing bird overhead.

The low chuckle that came from her wife tempted her attention enough for Jaina to hesitantly pull her eyes back down. “Don’t be so shy, wife. You’ve seen it all.”

Heat rose up into her cheeks so quickly Jaina nearly swooned. “I don’t — think they need to know that,” she muttered, glaring at Alina when the ranger peered at her with amusement.

It was almost unavoidable; to watch Sylvanas wring out the rag and slide it along an arm. Her skin glistened in its wake, each contour and defined structure of her muscles outlined in each sweeping pass she made with the rag. Up along her forearm, further up over her bicep and shoulder —

— down her chest and over each divot of muscle that made up the expanse of her stomach.

Sylvanas turned away, holding out the rag over her shoulder, which Alina took readily and began to dedicatedly run across the broad length of her frame.

“Oh — I —” Jaina looked away abruptly, turning towards her left, where Clea was oiling down Thyla — and enjoying it far too much than should rightly be allowed. Helpless and bewildered, she turned to her right and saw Lyana’s bare back as the ranger turned away for Velonara to oil. None of them was quite as broad as Sylvanas, nor carried the same wounds, but the amount of rippling muscles and glistening skin would have put a Kul Tiran oil wrestling team to shame.

She spun on her heels until her back was to all of them. “Tides,” Jaina croaked.

Alina reached out and braced a steadying hand on her elbow. “Are you alright, my lady?”

“You look peaky,” Lyana noted, rather gleefully. “Perhaps an oiling —”

Kalira cuffed her on the ear. “Don’t be a brat. You’ve cost us enough for a day.”

The Banshee Queen turned back to them, brow arching in amusement. Jaina looked and saw her wife’s tunic buttoned back into place — thank the Tides. “Come.” Sylvanas’ hand came to rest on the small of her back; as it always did. “We can walk the gardens. Cool off a bit.”

Jaina suppressed a shiver and nodded distractedly, eyeing Lyana with a thoughtful look as they went. They wandered into one of the smaller gardens, shrouded by short, low-hanging willows and trellises lined in ivy bursting in shades of green to burnished reds and coppers. They walked for a bit, circling the idle fountain before finding themselves beneath one of the corner trellises. It would have been…_ something _…if they were any other people.

But they weren’t, and so it wasn’t.

It was just a lovely day.

Sylvanas turned to her beneath the ivy, expectant and curious. “So, what was it you wanted to speak with me about?”

She blinked, then recalled the other pressing matter she was hunting Sylvanas for. “Oh! I was coming to tell you. Tandred's wife — she's delivered.”

Sylvanas blinked as well, ears pricking upright with surprise. “Oh? My congratulations on the new arrival. We should send something along. Boy or girl?”

“Girl, my mother said,” Jaina replied, watching as a soft, distant sort of look flickered across Sylvanas' face.

It passed as quickly as it came. The Warchief gave her a crooked smirk, eyes sparkling. “Spoiled rotten already, no doubt.” They shared a little grin that was somehow both knowing and melancholy. “Does she already have a name?”

“Tiffany.”

Sylvanas arched a brow. “Quite an antiquated name. I’m surprised they chose something so traditional.”

“I think my brother just liked the fact that it started with a ‘T’. My mother was asking if we'd be amenable to visiting for a bit before Hallow's End. To celebrate.”

Sylvanas sobered then, turning away with a guilty. “I’m afraid not,” she said, an apologetic lilt to her words. “There’s too much to do in time for Hallow’s End. People will be hunting for me all through the day.” She shook her head, then peered at Jaina thoughtfully. “No matter — you should go.”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“Go home,” Sylvanas said encouragingly. “Visit family. It’s been a time since you’ve returned to Boralus; this is the perfect opportunity to go.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to her — to make the journey alone. To leave Sylvanas in Lordaeron and travel back to Kul Tiras without her wife. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d travelled without the Warchief; much of the early years of their marriage had been spent apart as much as they could. Suddenly now, the thought was almost unimaginable. It put a strange, curdling sensation in her belly that Jaina swallowed back like bile.

How ridiculous. She was a grown woman — she could travel on her own just fine!

Jaina peered at her and prayed that the hopefulness didn’t show. “Are you sure you won’t be able to come away for a bit? Most of the festival has already been set into motion.”

Sylvanas looked down at her, something like regret in those blazing eyes and drooping ears. “Would that I could,” sighed the Banshee Queen, as one hand reached up idly to finger the hanging ivy around them. “But it would be unwise for me to be away from Lordaeron this close to Hallow’s End.” 

Jaina pursed her lips and huffed quietly. “Surely Lor’themar will manage a few days without you?” she hedged.

Sylvanas smiled at her wryly. “The Regent Lord has been dedicating his efforts towards the autumn festival my sisters spoke of. Things aren’t going as swimmingly as they would’ve liked, I’m told. I don’t know what they expected, really — they should’ve allowed for a year of negotiations and talks before implementing the festival. It should’ve been planned for the year ahead, if at all.”

“I’m sure their struggles delight you to no end.”

Clicking her tongue, the Warchief pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. “You wound me, dear wife.”

Jaina rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. Sighing quietly, she relented. “Alright, I’ll let my mother know when I’ll be going. Tomorrow, maybe. The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be able to make it back to help you.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Sylvanas insisted. “Smother your niece and nephew with all the attention they can stand. Catch up with your mother over tea and the knitting circle. She’s marked her attendance for the ball already; you’ll both need to come around eventually. There’s no rush.”

Huffing, Jaina said, “I suppose I should clear off anything urgent before I go.”

Sylvanas sobered then and regarded her seriously. “Don’t worry yourself over such things. Save your thoughts and attention for catching up with family. I can manage anything pressing.”

It sat on the tip of her tongue — the fact that Sylvanas, by right and by marriage, was just as much family to her as her mother and brothers. Instead, she swallowed it back and huffed, giving her wife a flat look. “You know I hate when you rifle through my papers.”

“I don’t think _ rifling _is the word you’re looking for.”

“Just because I don’t alphabetise the way I stack my reports doesn’t mean they’re not where they should be,” Jaina replied mildly, prodding her wife gently on the shoulder with a benign glare. “And that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do the alphabetising for me.”

Sylvanas looked down at her prodding finger and made a low sound of amusement. “Forgive me, then. I shall refrain from _ rifling _through your papers while you’re in Kul Tiras.”

“I will hex you if you do,” she warned, but they both knew the threat to be an empty one.

“Perish the thought,” Sylvanas drawled, plucking something from a vine. She rubbed a petal between her fingers for a thoughtful moment before reaching out and taking Jaina’s hand in hers. Turning it palm-side-up, she placed the flower carefully in place, then gently curled their fingers around it together.

Jaina stared down at her enclosed fist, pulling it away from Sylvanas’ hold and opening her hand slowly. It was a white flower; delicate and soft, with petals like velvet that she stroked her fingers across. She took in a slow breath and found the scent pleasant and mild. It reminded her of a cool autumn morning.

“How pretty,” she murmured, touching a finger to it. The flower stiffened, frost building slowly over its petals until it crystallised — beautiful and sweet, trapped in eternal bloom. With great care, she tucked it away into her pocket.

“Indeed,” Sylvanas replied, equally soft.

Looking up, she caught the expression on her wife’s face; something so painfully soft, so uncharacteristically delicate. Then the Warchief blinked, shoulders straightening as blood-red eyes darted away.

Clearing her throat, Sylvanas said, “You should rest. Clean up. I’ll find you at supper and we can discuss what we should send along for the little one.”

Jaina nodded wordlessly. There were too many things building in her throat; sitting on her tongue. If she opened her mouth then, she was afraid of what might’ve spilt forth. Eventually, she said, “Thank you. For letting me train with you.”

“Of course,” Sylvanas said quietly. “You’re always welcome.”

The weight of her wife’s words left Jaina reeling. The smile she gave the Warchief was wan and her exit hasty. She returned to her rooms and filled her bath with water close to freezing. As she undressed, she became all too aware of the cling of her clothes to her body. The stripe of slickness against her thighs. 

She sat and scrubbed and soaked until she could no longer bear it, but still the heat between her legs was only barely soothed.

At dinner, she was quiet. Sylvanas did not press or pry, though the Queen’s glowing eyes were keen on her face. Jaina ate and drank and mumbled her agreements of gifts — a swaddle and a rattle; things that could be customised and expedited with a bit of magic to ease the way.

Before bed that night, she held the flower between her fingers and breathed in its sweet scent; a faint remnant of something like cold steel lingering. 

She slept and dreamt of oil-slicked hands gripping her thighs, the bite of oversized teeth bearing down against her neck.

\----------

The next morning came too quickly. Sylvanas met her at breakfast, uncharacteristically subdued, but Jaina was too worn from the night to push. The silence between them was almost stifling, but by the time she finished her coffee, her things were packed and trunks sent ahead; the rattle and swaddle neatly wrapped atop her clothes. They walked together to the portal gates, each step filling her with a strange festering dread she could not place.

They stood close together, shuffling their feet and ducking their heads almost shyly. In a voice that was low and gentle, barely carrying through the space between them, Sylvanas said, “I hope you’ll enjoy your time away.”

“I’ll try,” she mumbled, and didn’t know if she meant it. It would be good to see her mother again. Her brother. Her little tow-headed nephew and his newborn sister. A family reunion. Yet somehow, it didn’t quite feel complete.

Boldly, she reached out between them, fingers barely touching, lingering. She curled them slightly and caught the edges of Sylvanas’ with hers, an anchor together that was at once steady and painfully fragile.

“Don’t work yourself too hard,” she said, peering up at Sylvanas through her lashes. “Don’t forget to rest.”

“I won’t.” Sylvanas flexed her fingers until their pinkies hooked together. “It’ll only be a week,” she said, though somehow Jaina wasn’t sure who between them it was meant to comfort.

She slid her hands fully into Sylvanas’, squeezing gently. “Just a week.” Rocking back on her heels slightly, she looked up at her wife; took in the long, elegant slopes of a face she knew by heart after four years of marriage. She looked and saw the drooping ears, the flickering look of strange misery that made a bloom of affection warm her chest.

Deliberately, slowly, she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against the cool surface of Sylvanas’ cheek. She heard the sharp hiss of a breath, felt the tightening of her wife’s grip — felt the shift of their faces until she could feel the barest brush of lips against the corner of her own.

She pulled back, breathless and giddy, staring up at Sylvanas as they clung to one another. The look she saw in her wife’s eyes only made her breath harder to catch. “I’ll — see you soon.”

“Soon,” Sylvanas rasped. “...Goodbye, Jaina.”

With great reluctance, she slipped her hands free, curling them tightly into fists to curb the hollow ache of them. “Goodbye.” The portal opened and Jaina stepped through, glancing one last time behind her.

Sylvanas stood watching, fingers brushing against her own cheek.

Jaina looked away quickly. When the portal closed behind her, she reached up and traced her lips with her own trembling fingers.

“Fuck,” she mumbled, smothering a grin. _ “Fuck.” _


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> family reunion part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been months i'm so sorry
> 
> i update in a pattern: threads, death comes, entanglement
> 
> but we're getting nasty after this first

CHAPTER VII

\--------

_ Sylvanas, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. _

_ Coming back was strange at first. The weather is too cool and damp, not like Lordaeron. The brine in the air brings back many memories. _

_ Still, it’s good to see everyone and everything again after such a time away. Olivia and Tiffany are doing well. The little one is so sweet; she sits so calmly in my arms when I hold her. Her hair is so fair. And how Daniel has grown! It feels like it was only just yesterday when he was as little as his baby sister. Now he’s as precocious as ever. Reminds me a lot of what Tandred was like when he was younger. _

_ It’s been a bit difficult sleeping in my old bed. It’s so painfully familiar and yet too different to ignore. Much of it hasn’t changed since my time in Dalaran. Admittedly, it’s much less frilly and girlish now, but somehow it feels...strange. There’s a certain nostalgia to it. I think you could relate. _

_ Still, I’m grateful that _ _ some _ _ things haven’t changed, like the fishmonger by the pier that sells the best pies. He’s retired now, but his son has taken over the business. The family recipe seems well-kept. I’ll have to take you when you come visit. _

_ Perhaps we might visit again soon, before Winter Veil. _

_ ...I hope you’re keeping well. I know it’s only been two days, but I worry nonetheless. _

Jaina’s pen hesitated over the last sentence, then slowly she moved down and began a new paragraph.

_ Thinking of you. _

_ Jaina _

She sent the letter away quickly, before she could think to regret penning the entire thing to begin with. It went away in the beak of a conjured falcon, sent away with a gentle stroke and quiet command. Jaina watched it go, leaning against the windowsill with a sigh. She opened her mouth then to speak, turned just so to address — no one.

For a fraction of an instant, a strange sort of panic filled her at the sight of the empty room. Then she sighed, almost with longing.

Leaving the dark ranger behind in Lordaeron had been a decision Jaina had made for herself. Despite Sylvanas’ obvious displeasure at the idea, neither of them could deny the fact that relations between the Kul Tirans and the Undead remained...tenuous at best. There would have been no point in making Alina suffer through a week of hostile looks and sneers wherever they went.

Still, there was a strange flutter of..._something _that stirred in her belly at the solitude. Years of marriage meant she had grown accustomed to a certain amount of proximity. The absence of which was almost painful now.

Returning to Kul Tiras after such a time away was discombobulating to say the least. Not just for its frigid brine-soaked weather, but the headrush she felt in that moment was certainly more than just excitement at visiting home. She met her mother at the portal gates that day with warm hugs and even warmer greetings. Even as she recalled the reunion, she couldn’t help but think of cooler flesh; of someone taller and scented faintly of tulips.

It wasn’t a thought she cared to linger on for too long. Her cheeks would not do well burning so brightly throughout her visit.

She went and found her family in the dining room, settling in for breakfast. Her nephew and sister-in-law greeted her brightly, to which she returned with a warm but wan smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, dear,” Katherine said, peering at her over a cup of tea. “Come sit. The coffee’s fresh and the scones are, too.”

Tandred reached over the table and took a scone in hand, biting into it with relish. From a full mouth, he said, “Tastes just like how Nan used to make it.”

“You’re disgusting,” Jaina said, settling into the seat adjacent to him and brushing the crumbs that fell from his beard off the table.

Tandred took another bite just to annoy her, winking as he did so.

Jaina scowled at him, but there was no hiding the grin behind it. “Ridiculous. How are you a father.”

“He’s more of a sibling than anything,” Olivia replied dryly, cradling little Tiffany in one arm as she kept Daniel from imitating his father with the other. “Clearly.”

Tandred’s laugh was booming; the same timbre and weight as their father’s own raucous laugh. The thought made something sour curdle in her belly and Jaina shook her head when Katherine held out the basket of scones to her.

“I’m not much for breakfast anymore,” she explained, shaking her head politely and sipping her coffee. Her brow wrinkled at the taste, grimacing as she fought the urge to gag. She stared down at the offending cup in bewilderment. “Tides, who _ made _ this?”

“I did,” Tandred said obliviously. “Good, ain’t it?”

“Did you happen to remember to use water instead of rum?”

“It’s just a bit heady,” he insisted. “I thought you liked it dark and strong.”

Jaina frowned. It had been years since she’d taken her coffee black. It wasn’t as if her brother really needed to know exactly how she took her coffee. She should have checked to begin with before drinking it; apparently a lesson she hadn’t yet acclimated to ever since the Wine Incident. It was just habit, surely.

She hadn’t needed to check how her coffee was made for years. Sylvanas always seemed to know.

“Hmm.” She pressed her lips together and waved her hand almost lazily. The cup drained of fluid and filled once more with slightly less viscous coffee; steaming gently. From the corner of her eye, she caught her mother peering at her thoughtfully.

“How do you take it in Lordaeron?” Katherine asked.

“Milk and sugar,” Jaina murmured, thumbing her ring. “I always have trouble sleeping if I don’t. Sylvanas —” She bit her lip and looked away to hide the rising burn in her cheeks.

Olivia arched a brow from across the table; knowing.

Jaina sipped her coffee and smiled at Daniel. “Shall we go for a ride today?”

“I might like to join you,” Katherine said, eyeing her with the same sort of knowing. “If you don’t mind the company.”

Though she narrowed her eyes slightly with suspicion, Jaina shook her head. “Not at all.”

\----------

There was always something melancholy about returning home. Doing the things she remembers doing as a child; seeing the things that shaped her youth. It was all so painfully familiar and yet so entirely foreign. She could remember sitting astride a destrier the same; only she was much smaller, closer in age to Daniel, and behind her was the steadying presence of Daelin Proudmoore.

It rose in a swell in her chest, as it always did, but Jaina tilted her ankles and squeezed into the destrier’s sides gently. The path was a clear route through the forest into a little glen they played in as children, with low-hanging trees that sheltered them from the midday sun in the height of summer. The cooler weather made the leaves into a collage of shapes against the damp earth. Against the softer shade of light, the black horse moved like a shadow along the path, blending into the trees.

Daniel laughed and squealed as they went, bouncing in the saddle as they moved in a trot. “Faster, faster!” he cried, nudging the horse with his own legs. 

The destrier snorted and shook its mane but kept its steady pace. Evidently long-adjusted to the antics of the young boy.

“Careful, darlings,” Katherine called from somewhere behind them. “Jaina, mind Hamish as he goes.”

“Hamish knows what he’s doing,” Jaina assured her, leaning down to pet the stallion on his withers. The last she saw Hamish, he’d been a leggy colt still. Now, he had grown beautifully into his broad destrier frame; with a powerful neck draped in a curtain of black that went almost as far down to the feathering around his massive hooves. 

“Sylvanas would like you,” she said to the horse; smiling as his ears swivelled back to her curiously. “She always thinks Kul Tiran horses are too heavy to be stealthy, but you’re quite light on your feet, aren’t you?”

Hamish burred at her agreeably. Daniel tilted his head up to peer at her through his pale hair. “Who is Syl-nanas?”

Jaina blinked down at him. “Oh. Sylvanas. She’s my — wife.”

“You have a wife?” Daniel asked, with the naivete only a child could manage. “Then how come she’s not here?”

“Because...she has a lot to do on the mainland. She’s the Warchief and the Banshee Queen.”

Daniel tilted his head to the side and wrinkled his nose in a way that reminded Jaina too much of her brother. “How can she be two things? Is she a bad lady? Daddy said she was a bad lady.”

A rush of indignation burned in her chest but Jaina swallowed it back with a patient smile. She would have to speak to Tandred about it later. “She was bad once. She’s not anymore.”

“Is she bad like how Daddy says a bad word sometimes?”

Jaina hesitated a moment then reached out to pet Daniel’s hair. It was endearing, his curiosity. It would have been more endearing if it were about anything else. “A little more than that.”

“Daddy says all bad people go to the gallows.”

Rather sharply, she said, “Sylvanas isn’t bad. I wouldn’t be married to her if she was bad.”

“Do you love her then?” Daniel demanded. “Does she love you?”

Jaina tightened her grip on Hamish’s reins and pulled him to a halt abruptly. “Oh, look! Here we are.” She dismounted quickly, helping Daniel off before he could protest. “Go run along and see if you can find any blackberry bushes.”

Katherine appeared beside her on a roan mare, watching with amusement as Daniel scurried off between the bushes. “Very subtle, dear,” she remarked.

Squinting at her mother, Jaina tied Hamish to the nearest tree and trailed after Daniel. “You really have to be careful with what you say to the children about Sylvanas. It’s not fair to skew their perception like that.”

Katherine dismounted her mare elegantly, hooping its reins to a branch. “Your brother has the tendency to embellish too much with his stories,” she said, then inclined her head. “But I will make a point to speak with him on the matter.”

Jaina huffed but said nothing further. They walked for a time, making an idle circle about the glen as Daniel ran about chasing butterflies and rummaging through low bushes for plump berries. She was aware of her mother’s coy, if probing gaze throughout it all. Finally, with no small amount of exasperation, she said, “If you stare any harder, I might turn to stone.”

“Perish the thought,” Katherine replied. “I’d never hear the end of it from your wife.”

Jaina cast a sidelong glare at her mother. “Stop that.”

Her mother shrugged innocently. “I’m not doing anything, dear.” Katherine continued walking placidly. “How are things on the mainland then? I hear there’s quite a bustle about Lordaeron with the ball just around the corner. Not to mention the solstice festival I hear the elven council have proposed.”

“It’s certainly been an exciting time,” she replied, trailing her fingers along the leaves as they passed. “Everyone’s eager to celebrate this year. It’ll be our first Hallow’s End without war hanging over our heads.”

“I can imagine,” Katherine hummed, peering at her sidelong. “No doubt the Warchief must be thrilled.”

“We’re both very relieved, yes.”

“How _ is _the Warchief? I haven’t seen her for a time.”

The needling lilt of her mother’s tone made Jaina pause in her step, eyeing Katherine warily. Carefully, she said, “She’s fine. Busy. Lots to do and think about.”

“Hmm. Too busy to leave Lordaeron, from the sound of things.”

“Well, we did just end a war,” she drawled.

Katherine made a noise in her throat, pausing at a flowering bud with feigned interest. “And yet here you are.”

“Did you _ not _want me to visit?”

“Of course I did. I just thought you’d come as a pair. As far as I’ve heard, you’re practically attached at the hip,” Katherine remarked.

Jaina arched a brow indulgently at her mother. “The Regent Lord is a terrible gossip. I see why you get along so well with him.”

Katherine hummed in agreement, smirking at her wickedly. “That, and he’s a terribly good sport about most things.”

“Eugh.” She fought back a shudder. “I didn’t need to know that.”

The grin on her mother’s face widened for a moment before slipping away into something more thoughtful. Quietly, Katherine asked, “How _ are _things between you? It’s been some few years now that you’ve been married. The war has only just ended.”

Jaina sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly. It was a question that seemed to hound _ everyone _ — without a looming threat at hand or a common enemy to fight, what really was the use of them being married still? The Alliance were braced for a day when Sylvanas would slit her throat and the Horde were braced for the day the Alliance would break their treaty.

It felt, at times, that there was no more trust between the factions now than there was before their union.

“We get along,” Jaina said finally. She plucked a leaf from a branch and held it between her fingers, brushing along the waxy grooves of it and tearing it slowly into thin strips. “Sometimes it feels like we’re the only ones that do at this point.”

Katherine arched a brow, eyes bright with mischief that Jaina pointedly ignored.

“She’s not as terrible as everyone says, you know. She’s actually quite —” She bit her lip, staring down at the small pile of leaf strips gathered in her hand. It reminded her of the flower she kept on her bedside table; crystallised and eternal.

“She’s been very good. To me,” she murmured. “Better than I think either of us expected.”

Katherine peered at her sidelong with an unreadable, discerning expression. She hadn’t seen that look on her mother’s face since she was much younger. “I’m very glad to hear it. From all that I’ve seen of your achievements since you were married...you work well together.”

Jaina smiled something shy and bittersweet at once. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted, waving her other hand over the leaf shreds and watching as they spun together into the shape of a little swan. She reached out and slipped it into her mother’s hands. “But we’ve come a long way.”

Katherine stroked the little swan in her hands and blinked as it shook its regal head and spread its wings. She held it carefully as it took flight, watching for a mesmerised moment as it disappeared into nothingness before her eyes slid back to Jaina.

“It’s been almost five years, hasn’t it?” 

“Five next summer.” The thought made something giddy and warm fill her belly; they’d been married for almost half a decade. Five years of wars and treaties and bloodshed and yet — she couldn’t imagine them without Sylvanas at her side.

“I’ve been meaning to ask her about celebrating it here instead of Orgrimmar or the capital,” she told her mother. “The summer heat is unbearable sometimes. I don’t think Sylvanas has seen much of Boralus except for the Keep.”

She went quiet for a moment, thoughtful and shy. “It’d be nice to be able to show her around.”

“You’re always welcome, dear,” Katherine said warmly, with feeling. “The both of you.”

Something warm and trembling filled her chest at the earnestness of her mother’s tone. Being married to Sylvanas meant that she was accustomed to a certain degree of alienation and prejudice, even from family. To know that her mother would welcome them both —

A tingle of sensation twitched at her fingertips at the thought. She couldn’t remember the last Sylvanas had joined her during visits back home — if ever, really —, but now she was consumed with all of the things she wished desperately to show her wife.

“She might come another time,” she said. “We might try to visit before Winter Veil, perhaps.” She peered off into the distance. “She’s been working so hard; she deserves time away. And she’s good with children.” She darted a look towards Daniel and caught sight of the boy’s pale hair. “Well — most children. But she’s patient even with the ones with...prejudices.”

Katherine arched a brow. “Is she?”

“Very,” Jaina replied, smiling fondly at the memory. “Though she likes to pretend otherwise. I’ve seen her with them. Children of the Horde...and the orphans sometimes. When she thinks I’ve gone away. She makes a little note in her schedule — something entirely obscure — and she goes and visits.”

She slid her thumb idly over the texture of her ring. “They adore her.”

“They might not be the only ones,” Katherine muttered.

Jaina frowned, but before she could press her mother for an explanation, Katherine strode forward and called out between the bushes. “Daniel, darling, don’t eat too many — you’ll give yourself a tummy ache.”

Daniel was sitting beneath a tree, smeared in red and purple from the berries he seemed content with devouring. He looked up at the sight of them and hid his messy hands behind his back quickly. “I wasn’t eatin’ none,” he said, blinking innocently.

“That might’ve worked if you weren’t covered in it,” Katherine drawled, shaking her head with a long-suffering sigh. “How did I ever endure _ two _ sons, I’ll never know.”

Jaina sidled up to her, hiding a grin as she stared down at her nephew. “Derek was fine. _ I _had to babysit Tandred.”

“Which certainly explains where he gets it from,” Katherine huffed, wiping at Daniel’s face and hands with a handkerchief she’d pulled out from somewhere. Grandmothers had that sort of power, it seemed; no matter the situation. “Right, it’s back to the Keep with you, young man. Those sticky fingers will be a treat for the ants and bees if we linger for much longer.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. “Ants? Bees?”

“Then you wouldn’t have any fingers,” Jaina told him placidly, trailing after them as Katherine tugged him along. “We’d have to replace them with sausages instead.”

Instead of bursting into tears — as she rather fondly remembered Tandred did when he was Daniel’s age — the boy perked up with interest. “Can I eat them?”

_“Jaina!”_

\---------

The falcon was waiting for her when she returned to her rooms that evening. A thrill ran through her at the sight of it and Jaina rushed to the window. She stroked its feathers and cooed at it gratefully, plucking the letter from its beak. The falcon shook its feathers and began to groom itself, chirring when she conjured a little bowl of food and water for it.

She took the letter in hand and held it for a moment, staring at the familiar sloping scrawl of her wife’s script. Thumbing it fondly, fingers trembling, she broke the purple seal and opened it.

_ Jaina, _

_ I trust you packed warmly for the weather. If not, send word and I will have some delivered to you. I hope this trip home is a peaceful one, despite these feelings of melancholy. I know those feelings too well. Should you ever have need of an ear, only send Kestrel back to me. She will know to find me. _

“Kestrel,” she murmured, glancing up almost at the same time as the falcon. “She might as well have called you Bird.”

Kestrel tilted its head at her as if to shrug, then chittered in reply. Jaina shook her head fondly and continued reading.

_ Still, I’m glad to hear that you’re able to enjoy some of the things from your childhood. And that your niece and nephew are doing well. I hope for Little Tiffany’s sake that she takes after her mother more than your brother. As far as brains and good looks go in the Proudmoore line, it would seem that you took the lion’s share. Perhaps she might be so lucky as to take after her aunt instead. _

_ Enjoy yourself as much as you can. You should be reconnecting with your family instead of writing to me...but I appreciate it nonetheless. _

_ Be well, wife. I look forward to hearing more tales of your adventures. _

<strike> _ SW _ </strike> _ Sylvanas _

It didn’t occur to her that she was grinning so widely until her cheeks began to smart. She forced herself to stop, sucking in her cheeks to soothe the ache of them, but that didn’t stop the giddy warmth blooming in her chest. How strange it was, to be as excited as a schoolgirl over a love letter. But it wasn’t a love letter — it was just a letter. From her wife.

To whom she had been married for four years.

Her wife, who she had kissed before returning home.

It had been a perfectly chaste thing; nothing more than a brush of her lips to Sylvanas’ cheek, but the ghost of their lips together was enough for Jaina’s dreams to wander further than she would dare admit.

Presently though, the warmth in her belly was one stirred most from affection. To the untrained eye, Sylvanas’ letter might have seemed cool and aloof — as was the wont of the Banshee Queen. But Jaina had four years of experience in parsing together meaning from her wife’s penmanship.

She sat at her deck and put pen to paper. She wrote of everything she could think; everything she _ did _think but could not verbalise. There were certain humours that her family couldn’t quite share with her, but it was just as well. It was not something she begrudged them of; it was simply a similarity shared with Sylvanas.

_ We rode for a bit today with Daniel, _ she wrote. _ I think you’d enjoy it when we come visit next. Hamish is black as night and vain; he would suit you well. Maybe we can come before Winter Veil. It’ll be colder, but I’m sure we can have some clothes tailored here for you to stay warm. It would be a nice time away together. I’d love to show you around. _

_ I write to you because I want to. And also to make sure you’re actually resting and eating. Put the paperwork aside for the night. _

_ PS: Kestrel? Really? I thought you more imaginative than that, Warchief. _

_ x, _

_ Jaina _

She sealed the letter and whistled to Kestrel, who flew from the window perch onto her shoulder. “Will you take this to her for me?” she asked, stroking the falcon’s plume.

Kestrel chirped, nibbling fondly at Jaina’s fingers before taking up the letter in her beak. With a soft chitter, she disappeared into the night, a flash of colour against the blue velvet sky.

Jaina watched her go, then bathed and dressed for the night. Nestled down beneath the covers, she became aware of the quiet in the room; the stiffness of the mattress and the softness of the pillows under her head. The vast emptiness of the space in bed beside her. 

She closed her eyes and dreamt, embraced in the scent of tulips and cold steel.

\--------

She spent the next few days visiting places and people; eating and drinking and savouring the memories of times when there were only jaunty tunes to sing and merry jigs to dance. Since her departure to Dalaran, Jaina hadn’t spent much time at home — for good reason, of course — and the experience was almost overwhelming.

Still, each place she went, each meal she ate; she couldn’t help but think of how much better it could have been with someone there to share it with.

The letter came during breakfast on the fifth day; Kestrel appearing through an open window to perch on Jaina’s shoulder. Daniel squealed with delight, to which she smiled fondly as she stroked Kestrel’s feathers.

“Bird!” 

“Her name is Kestrel,” Jaina told him, plucking the letter from her beak. “Isn’t she pretty?” Kestrel nipped at her ear affectionately and fluttered off, to Daniel’s disappointment. Stroking her finger along the edge of the envelope, she glanced at her mother before slipping it by her plate. The urge to read it immediately was strong, but the probing eyes from around the table were stronger.

Tandred made to reach for the letter, only to have his hand slapped aside. “Love letter, eh?” He pulled his hand back and smirked at her. “Who from?”

Jaina pocketed the letter quickly before he could make another try. “_Personal _letter,” she retorted. “And none of your business.”

“Leave your sister alone, Tandred,” Katherine said, though her voice was coloured with amusement. “Remember what Jaina did when you read through her diary?”

Tandred recoiled, tucking his hands safely away in his sleeves.

Katherine hid a smile and sipped her tea. “So,” she began, glancing at Jaina. “Have you chosen a dress for the ball?”

Jaina blinked. “No,” she admitted, prodding at her eggs. “Tides, I haven’t even thought of it.”

“You could get it made here,” Olivia suggested. “Your mother and I have a lovely new tailor. Works wonders in a pinch. Cromwell’s granddaughter, can you believe it?”

“Oh, that’s a lovely idea,” Katherine said, setting her cup aside and tenting her fingers. “We can go today and have something measured. You’ll have some time to think about your colours and themes.”

Jaina glanced between them and hesitated. “Well I — I suppose we could. It’s just that Sylvanas and I usually...match our colours for these sorts of things. A unified front and all, you know.” She waved her hand in a casual gesture.

Tandred arched a brow at her. Teasingly, he said. “Don’t tell me you need _ permission _for how you dress.”

“It’s not _ permission_,” she shot back mildly. “It’s just...courtesy. Don’t you want to match with Tan for the ball, Liv?”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “But in this case, Tandred’s opinion is irrelevant.”

“That’s true!” Tandred beamed, as if the thought pleased him. “I don’t have to care about what colour my cravat will be or if my coat’s got enough tassels. Livvy does it all.”

“‘Livvy’ has to,” Olivia drawled. “If you had your way, you’d walk out of the Keep in nothing more than your nightshirt…and no trousers.”

Katherine snorted from the head of the table. “Ah, some things never change,” she sighed wistfully. “It was easier threading a whale through the eye of a needle than getting Tandred to put on his pants when he was a boy. Poor lad gave all the maids quite a scare in his time.”

Jaina grinned as her brother’s face flamed. “Didn’t you once empty a whole tin of pomade in your hair because you hated how it swept in the wind when you sailed?”

“That was one time!” he sputtered, though to which occasion, Jaina couldn’t be sure. “I have better things to care about than froufrou outfits for costume parties.”

Daniel lunged over the table to stab for another sausage from the platter. Mouth full and jam smeared on his cheeks, he asked, “Will I need to go for the party?”

Olivia gave her son’s hair a little pet and smiled. “No, lovely; you get to stay home and play lots of fun games with Nanny,” she cooed.

“And it’ll be boring anyway,” Tandred said, stealing a sausage between his thumb and finger. “Nothing but stuffy dignitaries and lots of dancing.” He made a face dramatically at the boy, rolling his eyes back hard as Daniel giggled. “_Boring _dancing, too. Too many rules and steps.”

“I’m sure Genn would join you for a jig if you get him drunk enough,” Jaina said, peering at Olivia and her mother. “I don’t mind tagging along if you’re getting your dresses measured. I might want to get something made as well, even if it’s not for the ball.”

“Lovely.” Olivia rose from her seat and lifted Daniel onto her hip, wiping at his face with a napkin. “Let me settle the children and we can go.”

\-------

Jaina sat with them at the tailor, cradling Tiffany in her arms as the baby dozed. They knew better to expect Daniel to sit through the process patiently, and so the boy was left with his nanny at the Keep. It was nice to have the baby to herself; to marvel at Tiffany’s long lashes and impossibly tiny fingernails. Olivia and Katherine chatted idly with her, draping swaths of cloth over their bodies for the scrutiny of the tailor before climbing onto the pedestal in front of the mirror.

“How do you like this one, Jaina?” Olivia spread out a cloth in the shade of maroon so dark it bordered a rich purple. She smoothed out a hand over the material and presented it to Jaina with a little twirl. “It’s got such a nice body to it and it’s something different from your usual things.”

Jaina reached out a hand and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “Velvet?”

“Corrine says she’ll be able to have it embroidered in time for the ball if you’d like it for a gown.”

“Maybe not a gown,” she said, shifting Tiffany in her arms, draping the baby over a shoulder. “A riding jacket perhaps.”

Olivia hummed and folded the material, setting it beside Jaina with a little spark of knowing in her eyes. “Well, you don’t need to make a decision today. You could bring it home and have your own tailors look at it. See if you want to make a matching set of something to go with the missus.” She winked and went about her way.

Jaina flushed and glared after Olivia mildly, cradling Tiffany close and patting the baby on the back thoughtlessly. As her eyes drifted down to the fabric, so too did her mind. Though their clothes for official celebrations were usually complementary in some form or another, their tastes in everyday garments were contradicting.

Where she preferred the lighter garb of linen blouses or skirts, Sylvanas wore clothes that were cut to mould to the figure. She supposed it had something to do with her wife’s past as a ranger. Hunters needed clothes that didn’t get in the way as much as flowing material.

The fabric beneath her palm made her skin prickle with frisson, twitching up into the tips of her fingers and along the nerves of her elbow. She imagined, briefly, running her hand over Sylvanas’ broad shoulder the same; to smooth back the material or brush away an errant speck of dust. The slide of her fingers over the broad plane of her wife’s chest as those blazing eyes bore into her face...

“_Ahem_.”

She startled violently, hard enough to jostle the baby. Tiffany whimpered in her hold, squirming slightly, and Jaina rushed to soothe the little thing before there were any louder cries. She looked up to see her mother smiling down at her, amused and indulgent.

“Here, darling.” Katherine sidled up next to her and reached out for Tiffany. “Let me give your arms a rest. Liv is just about finished with her measurements.”

Jaina handed Tiffany over gratefully; she wasn’t too hefty yet, but even the smallest babies would weigh heavy after a time. Olivia came bustling out a few moments later and Katherine readily passed the baby to its mother.

“I’d reckon she’s about due for a feeding,” Katherine said.

“Oh, goodness yes,” Olivia replied somewhat breathlessly, tucking her daughter into the nook of her elbow. “I’m full to bursting.” She reached a hand to her blouse and began unravelling the first button. “Just give me a moment, ladies, and then we can go.”

Jaina waved her away easily. “Take your time,” she insisted. “We’re not in any rush.”

As Olivia disappeared behind into one of the changing rooms, Katherine settled into the chair beside Jaina’s. Leaning back into her seat, she flexed her hands along the armrests for a moment, stretching out with a soft sigh and hum.

“So,” she said, peering sidelong at Jaina. “Have you been enjoying yourself, darling?”

“Of course.” Jaina smiled softly, pulling her hand into her lap to quell the urge to stroke the material again. Without the baby in her arms, she was suddenly bereft.

“You must be eager to return to Lordaeron as well. Much to do before Hallow’s End; I know you hate being pulled away from your paperwork for too long.”

Jaina smiled wryly. “I enjoy paperwork, but I don’t like it _ that _ much.”

“Then it’s your wife you must miss, if not the paperwork,” Katherine said casually. 

Stunned, she stared at her mother for a moment. Then she barked out a laugh because she couldn’t think to do anything else. “Wh — don’t be — that —”

Katherine smiled softly. With a fair bit of sentiment, she said, “I know that maudlin look on your face. You do it when you think no one’s looking.” Her hands came together on her lap, clasped with fingers twined. Warmth and understanding coloured the seafoam of her eyes as she looked at Jaina. “You speak of her often, you know. About things you do together. Things you’ve shared. Things you _ want _to share. Apparently you enjoy that sense of humour of hers.”

“It grows on you,” she muttered.

“As does the yearning that comes whenever you’re apart, I imagine.”

Jaina huffed. “I don’t pine. I just — it’s normal to miss someone you’ve been around so much.”

Katherine hummed, leaning back into her seat to cross her legs. “Well, if it helps, I’ve heard that the Warchief has been miserable without you,” she told Jaina.

“Lor’themar really needs to stop gossiping about us,” Jaina chided, though the thought made her belly warm with exhilaration.

“I don’t think it counts as gossip if she’s been —” her mother made air quotes “‘moping as if she were a lovesick greenling all over again.’”

The image of Sylvanas pouting and sulking about her absence was absurd enough to make her smile. “That’s not what he said.”

“I swear it to be true.” Katherine lifted three fingers and then crossed them over her heart. “I’m not asking for an explanation, dear,” she said kindly. “I don’t quite think I have any right to it. You’re both adults and the decision is yours. I just want to be sure you’re being honest with yourself about it.”

Jaina stared at her own hands for a moment; at the faint scars that remained still from their battle with Azshara. At the fine detailing of her wedding ring. Quietly, she said, “It’s just proximity, Mother. Learned tolerance.” 

“For whom?”

Her lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. “I can’t imagine Sylvanas Windrunner ever feeling that way about someone like me.”

“What about you, dear?” Katherine murmured, reaching out to lay her hand gently on Jaina’s. “Can Jaina Proudmoore feel that way for someone like her?”

Jaina went quiet. The weight of her mother’s hand was warm and soft on hers; tender in the way that reminded her of cooler touches. It was a question she did her best to avoid addressing — to avoid even considering. There was surely too much history between them for anything to come to fruition. Too much blood spilt to have either sides of their factions approve of their affections.

The Alliance, at least, made their stance on the matter clear enough.

Still, there were facets to Sylvanas she cherished. Kept hidden away and closely guarded in their quiet moments together. Parts of her wife — of the Warchief of the Horde, the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken — that no one else had seen. 

Softer. Kinder. Lovelier than the cold tyrant most people portrayed her to be.

Before she could reply, Olivia reappeared, Tiffany fast asleep. “Sorry about that — she was hungrier than usual.”

Jaina slipped her hand from Katherine’s grip and forced a smile as she stood. “It’s no problem. Shall we get back to the Keep? It must be time for her nap.” She could feel her mother’s gaze burning into the back of her skull still, but she ignored it, bustling about to help them gather their things.

“This one is yours,” Olivia said, pressing a parcel into her hands. “A little celebratory gift from me.”

Jaina looked down at the parcel and caught sight of rich maroon. She bit her lip and clutched it to her chest.

\------------

She spent some time away in the bowels of the old library, digging through shelf after shelf of dust-caked tomes. It was a place she escaped to often as a child — to gather her thoughts and huddle between the pages of storybooks. There was too much reeling in her mind to process all at once; too many thoughts and emotions that were festering in her body she was almost ill with it.

Instead, she rekindled memories of time spent there as a child; perched on the knee of Old Ned and learning of legends and myths. Poring through the history of Kul Tiras and their people. Now, she sought pieces of poetry; small, thin, gently-bound books that were filled with words that had long been forgotten.

When she wove her way out of the maze of books, it was well into supper. She could smell the ale and port on her brother’s breath as she stepped into the dining room and she did her best not to wrinkle her nose. Still, she said, “I didn’t realise you were on a liquid diet.”

“You’re just mad I started without you,” Tandred replied gamely, holding out a pint glass for her. “C’mon, sit! This dinner’s for you. You’ll be off tomorrow. Thought you’d get buried under all those books.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Olivia asked.

Jaina settled into a seat, smiling faintly. “I did. There were a few tomes I haven’t touched in years. There’s a poetry collection I didn’t even realise we had! Sylvanas will like it, I think —”

Tandred snorted behind his mug. “Can’t imagine the Banshee Queen as someone who fingers through poetry volumes.”

Jaina narrowed her eyes at her brother but quelled the slow-brewing irritation building in her chest. “She’s the Banshee Queen and Warchief, Tan,” she said mildly. “Of course she’s well-read. She was Ranger-General before that.”

“Well, I’m Admiral of the Fleet and you don’t see me toting about a book of love poems.”.

“You barely know how to write your name legibly.” She smirked when Tandred harrumphed indignantly, but made no protest. “Besides, she helps with my Thalassian.”

“What do you need to learn Thalassian for?” he cried, taking a hefty mouthful of ale. “It’s practically a dead language as it is. Everyone speaks Common now anyway.”

Gesturing at him with her fork, Jaina said, “That is exactly why it _ is _so important for people to be multilingual.” She chewed her food pointedly.

“It’s also a preservation of culture, dear,” Olivia told him, with the patience only a wife could have. The wife of a man, at least. “People need to remember their history.”

Tandred blew out a puff of air between his lips and waved her aside dismissively. “Pah. Everything’s going to be translated eventually.”

“By whom?” Jaina retorted, rolling her eyes. “The people who can’t read the language?”

His flushed face darkened slightly and Tandred harrumphed, gesturing towards her with his ale. “Go on then,” he said briskly. “Tell us what it's really like being married to a monster.”

A great burning anger rose in her belly, stirring like a serpent uncoiling and flaring at the sight of a threat. Jaina swallowed her bite and set her jaw, glaring at her brother with enough animosity for Tandred’s crooked grin to fade. “Sylvanas is not a monster,” she said coldly. “It’s been four years, Tan. We’ve made peace with our pasts at this point. I don’t appreciate having my wife being called a monster by my own brother. That sort of talk is why our people still can’t speak her name without spitting.”

Tandred shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “You know I only ever say it in jest,” he insisted. “It’s just a shame that you had to be caught up in it all. You would’ve been able to settle down with someone you could actually be happy with.”

“I _ am _ happy,” Jaina replied indignantly. “I’m happier when I’m with her than I am sitting at dinner with my family and having my wife be vilified for things dead and buried.”

Olivia laid a placating hand on Tandred’s squeezing in the way wives did when their husbands’ tongues loosened. “Darling, please. Leave it be.”

Tandred harrumphed again but obliged, mumbling something Jaina couldn’t quite make out from behind his ale mug. She huffed and slumped back against her seat the same, taking another swallow of her wine. Her eyes slid sidelong at her mother, whose apologetic eyes were mirrored by Olivia’s. She sighed and prodded at her meal, wishing terribly that the seat beside her wasn’t so empty. That instead of Daniel covered in peas; it was someone taller, broader. With longer ears and a crooked feline smirk who would have appreciated her murmuring asides and pithy one-liners.

“Tandred,” Katherine chided him, with the sharpness of a mother on her first and only warning. “Don't be rude. Were it not for Jaina’s marriage, the entire continent would still be at war. We can only be so grateful that she has the sensibilities to sustain the marriage. Who knows what would've happened if the Warchief had married _ you_.”

From behind her glass, Jaina muttered, “She would’ve decorated your ‘marriage bed’ with your entrails is what.”

“What's entrails?” Daniel asked.

“Something that Daddy’s going to be picking up off his lap if he doesn’t behave,” Olivia told him serenely. “Be a good lad and finish your peas, darling.” She turned back to them primly. “I for one, would love to meet the Warchief again. If nothing else, then to balance out the testosterone in the Keep.”

“The numbers are even now with Tiffany here,” Jaina said. “But it would be lovely to bring her for a visit.” She darted a speaking look at her brother, who narrowed his eyes and made a face at her benignly. “Preferably without the blatant racism.”

Tandred sighed. “You know I don’t mean it,” he placated her. “It’s my job to annoy you and dislike her as your younger brother. I only care that you’re treated well.”

Jaina sighed as well and regarded her brother. “I _ am _ treated well. And I _ am _happy,” she said firmly.

“I’ll believe it when I see it for myself, I suppose,” he mumbled. “Till the ball, then."

When the morning came, she bade her family goodbye with warm kisses and lingering hugs. Tandred swept her up into his arms and spun her around until she was squealing and screaming, beating at his chest with bewildered laughter.

“Come home more often,” he said, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “Bring that wife of yours and we’ll put ‘er sea legs to the test.”

Jaina smiled and nudged him fondly on the shoulder. “I might just.”

Katherine came to her last, their hug lingering the longest as Jaina savoured the warmth of her mother’s embrace for as long as she could. She could feel the hand stroking through her hair, the tight clutch of fingers squeezing into her back.

“Take care of yourself, Jaina,” Katherine murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her face. “Be true to your heart, as you always are.”

Jaina stepped back and squeezed her mother’s hands tight, smiling wanly. “I’ll do my best.” The portal opened behind her, and as she stepped up to the shimmering curtain of light, she turned back and looked at her family one last time.

With a steadying breath, she stepped through the portal.

\------ 

There were two figures waiting for her on the other side. Familiar figures.

Their eyes met. Jaina felt her breath hitch as a giddiness rose in her belly. She smiled — Tides, how widely she did smile — and quickened her pace.

Ears pricking upright, Sylvanas moved forward in smooth strides to meet her.

Jaina did not think. She threw her arms around her wife and held on tight.

Sylvanas’ arms came around her with almost as much eagerness. Pressed tight together, she could feel the strange flutter in her chest multiply as she felt Sylvanas’ face press against her hair slightly, heard the sharp inhale that the Warchief took despite needing no air.

“Welcome home,” Sylvanas murmured.

Jaina pressed her face into Sylvanas’ neck. “Home. I'm home.”

**Author's Note:**

> the later chapters are going to be filthy and the appropriate tags will be added along the way bc i like surprises


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